Transitions
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: Roarke and Leslie indulge Anna-Kristina a few more reminiscences before she returns home. Follows 'Decisions'
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _One last go-round with fantasy memories, and then the final story will come up (at least the final original story with Roarke). It may take me a while to write, but I'll try to make it the best I possibly can. And then it'll be time for me to start sifting through my original material among all the dozens of stories I've posted under the_ Fantasy Island _category under both my_ noms de plume _and adapting it for possible publication (while simultaneously writing new adventures for Christian and Leslie over on FictionPress). Just know that there will occasionally be new stories on here; some will be episode adaptations, and others will be original stories set during Leslie's teen years on the island. Enjoy..._

* * *

§ § § - October 11, 2009

It had taken a long talk with the triplets the previous night before they would finally go to sleep, and Leslie felt worn out that morning when she, Christian and Roarke went over to the hospital to see how Anna-Kristina was doing. Her doctor met them at the door to her room, his face grave. "She had a bad night, I'm sorry to say," he said. "She was fine till she tried to sleep; then she had three nightmares, and according to her reports, each one was successively worse. She's asked for sedation again."

"Is that safe?" Christian asked, scowling.

"Your Highness, it's as safe for her now as it was this past week," said the doctor, his voice soothing. "She'll be fine, but we thought it best that you know." From inside the room they heard a voice call him; he excused himself and ducked inside.

"My love," Leslie said softly, "I know you're worried, but don't be so quick to jump down his throat. You act more like her father than her uncle."

"I feel like a stand-in for her father," Christian admitted apologetically. "I probably have for most of her life. But this time the sedation will be a full week."

She gave him a gentle poke in the chest and kidded him, "I think you just want someone to tease." She and Roarke both laughed when he rolled his eyes at her. "Ask whatever you want, just try to be less...well, imperial about it."

The doctor returned and beckoned them inside, and they filed in; Anna-Kristina was sitting up in bed, looking as tired as Leslie felt. She focused on Christian as soon as she spotted him and exclaimed, "Uncle Christian...I had the most horrid nightmares last night. I can't stand them. I don't exactly want to be unconscious, but I don't know another way to avoid them. Don't get angry if I ask to be comatose again, please."

Christian sat on the side of her bed and patted her shoulder. "I know, _Kattersprinsessan_ , but you'll have to excuse me for worrying that it might be detrimental to you for some other reason than simply interfering with the amakarna serum. I just want to be able to send you back to Kai and your girls safe and sound, just as when you arrived, except without the burden of amakarna dependence. So try to overlook my hovering."

Anna-Kristina smiled at that, and the doctor cleared his throat, looking puzzled. "What was that you called her?"

Christian laughed, and Leslie explained with a grin, "It just means Princess of Cats, because she's had cats continuously ever since she was a little girl. Anyway, she's looking to be sedated till the end of her waiting period, and I guess we just need to know if that's safe, especially considering the length of time she's already been out."

"I'd think of it as a vacation," Anna-Kristina bantered. "Raising three girls is tiring, and being here—and sleeping away part of it—seems like quite a nice rest."

That got her a round of laughter, and the doctor shrugged. "Well, she's had no adverse reaction to being put under; she came out of it nicely yesterday when we brought her back, and she's responding well to the serum otherwise. No worries that you'll be the only failure, Your Highness. It's working on you just as well as it's worked on everyone else who's taken it since the very first trial period. So as long as your aunt and uncle give their consent and you authorize it, we can anesthetize you again, and when you wake up you should be good as new. No hallucinations or nightmares, and no more amakarna."

"And then we'll take you home and you'll start taking walks along our lane to help get your muscles back in proper working order," Christian added. "Lying in bed like that for too long will gradually atrophy your muscle tissue and make it more difficult for you to do things you take for granted, so it's as well you're staying till the end of the month; you can get them back in tone and you'll be fully recovered when you go home."

"Then I see no reason to wait," said Anna-Kristina. "Put me back in a coma, and then you can put all the tubes in me that you must. I ask only that we have the chance to talk about more fantasy memories after I wake up."

"You're obsessed," Leslie accused her laughingly. "We'll see about that. For now, let's just concentrate on getting you through the waiting period. Doctor, if this is what she wants and Christian agrees with it, then so do I."

Christian blew out a breath. "Outnumbered again, hm? Well enough, I suppose I can't say no when there's not enough risk to waste my time worrying about. However, if something does come up, I insist we be told immediately."

"Goes without saying, Your Highness," the doctor assured him. "Well, in that case, say good night, Princess, and rest well."

October 17, 2009

Rogan had had any number of questions for Roarke and Leslie the previous weekend, but had ultimately done well enough on his own that Roarke again put him in charge of the fantasies. The week had been uneventful; the triplets, who seemed to have bounced back from the bad news of the weekend—at least on the surface—were in the middle of their fundraising art project at school, and Christian spent his days in his office in town, while Leslie took Anastasia in with her to the main house and used most of her time scheduling fantasies for Rogan, well into the coming year. With Roarke's help, she began organizing the administrative committee that would oversee the more mundane functions involved in running the island and seeing that provision of civil services and utilities would continue without undue interruption during the coming transition.

On that sunny Saturday morning, Christian gave permission for Brianna Harding to take the triplets off to the pool, where they still loved paddling around in the nearby children's wading pool; for the first time since she had officially become Roarke's assistant more than nineteen years before, Leslie hadn't accompanied her father and cousin to the plane dock, sensing that she might do well to start easing into her own transition now. So she and Christian were sitting in the study, with Leslie behind the desk and Anastasia sleeping on Christian's shoulder, while Roarke and Rogan were greeting the latest guests.

"How many more fantasies do you plan to schedule for that cousin of yours?" Christian asked idly, watching her pencil in a couple more for a weekend in August.

Leslie glanced up. "Oh, I don't know...I guess as many as I can till I run out of dates in the date book." He chuckled low, mindful of the slumbering baby, and she grinned. "In fact, I had a bit of an ulterior motive in mind. I'm choosing a lot of fantasies where Rogan's going to need somebody to role-play, to keep an eye on the guest."

"Be careful of how many of those you do," Christian said. "By next September we'll be back in Lilla Jordsö. More likely we'll leave sometime during the second half of August, so that there's enough time to enroll the triplets in school." He placed a hand on Anastasia's back to hold her in place and leaned forward, as if he were trying to read her handwriting upside down. "Just what sorts of roles are you setting yourself up to play, anyhow?"

"All kinds of stuff. Historical figures, primarily. You might be able to play some roles yourself, if you want to. Since we were married, tourism here from Lilla Jordsö has been rising, slowly but steadily, and I've uncovered at least ten requests to see certain periods in _jordisk_ history. It could be fun to go in and do that, like we did before."

"You'll have to be careful about that, or you'll have the triplets clamoring to join us in that role-playing. I have to admit, those experiences were quite enjoyable, although there are times when I think Anna-Laura would get more out of it than I would."

They laughed softly, and Christian settled back and watched Leslie continue filling in weekend slots. Roarke and Rogan returned as she turned the page to start filling in September requests, and they both looked around. "What do you have this weekend?" Christian asked Rogan, rising from the chair with the baby.

"Nothing unusual," Rogan replied, shrugging. "Coupla run-o'-the-mill things like people wantin' to live like millionaires and folks who want to meet ancestors. Keep it nice an' smooth like that, cousin, an' let me ease into this stuff nice an' gradual, an' ye'll have me eternal gratitude."

Leslie gave him a thoughtful look and remarked, "You should've said that earlier. Next weekend we have a guy who wants to emulate the lead character in that movie _The Fly."_ Christian stared at her, a huge grin blooming across his face; Rogan looked horrified, and Roarke gave her an admonishing look.

"Now, Leslie, stop teasing your cousin," he said mildly.

Leslie blinked at him. "Who's teasing? Come over here and look for yourself," she said, showing her father the date book and the letter that matched the name of one of the fantasizers scheduled for the following weekend.

"Is that your way of trying to keep me busy until I must join the tribunal?" Roarke chided, though amusement sparkled from his dark eyes. "Really, Leslie...I must question your taste in allowing that one to be granted."

"I gave it to you for the usual screening process as far back as around the Fourth of July, and you told me to put it in for sometime in the fall. I think you had the idea that it could present Rogan's first real challenge," said Leslie. She turned to her aghast cousin and grinned. "It could give you an excuse to bring Rory in and see if he's capable of setting things up so this guy can be a disgusting, ultra-ugly, human-size fly."

"You'd better not tell Myeko about that one," Christian put in, and at that she broke into laughter, nodding agreement. Myeko still garnered teasing from her friends and family for her extreme aversion to houseflies.

"I can't believe I was stupid enough to agree when uncle suggested lettin' you plan out me work schedule till the end o' next year," Rogan groused, scowling fiercely. "Ye're truly a sadist, Leslie, no doubt of it. How ye stand it, Christian, I have no clue."

"He taught me," Leslie said with a smirk, and this time Christian laughed as well. He nodded merrily when Rogan threw him a look, and Roarke straightened up then with some effort, laughing himself.

"All right, the three of you, that will do. Christian and Leslie, you two may wish to keep an eye on the time, since Anna-Kristina is due to be awakened today and should be free to return home with you and begin her exercise regimen to complete her recovery. Rogan, you have preparations to make to interview our guests this weekend, so you may as well go to the kitchen and see to it that Mariki has the ingredients she needs for whatever beverages our guests may ask for. Oh, and Leslie, if you would kindly double-check the empty bungalows and make sure they are ready for any incidental guests..."

By the time all this was complete and the weekend's latest guests had been launched into their fantasies, it was time to go to the hospital. Leaving Anastasia with Roarke, Christian and Leslie took the car over, since it was their intention to take Anna-Kristina back to their house so that she could begin the remainder of her recovery. She was awakened with the same confusion as the first time, but her memory came back intact as before, and she told them all that she felt just fine. But when Christian and Leslie explained their plans for the day, she stared at them in dismay.

"What will I do all day, if you two are going back to the resort?" she asked. "I've read the books I brought already."

Leslie grinned. "We can set you up to watch 'King's Castle' DVDs for a while," she offered. "The first five seasons are out, so there's plenty to watch. Take a little walk around the front yard first, though, so you can get up and change disks when you need to—that'll help get your muscles moving."

"She goes out in a wheelchair, per hospital policy," her doctor told them, "but I'd suggest helping her walk to your car and then keeping an eye on her till she can walk at least a short distance—like across a room—unassisted. Once you're all sure she can manage on her own for a day, you can go about your business, but I recommend going back home tonight instead of staying at the main house."

They agreed, and about fifteen minutes later they were on the way home. Christian casually glanced at his Rolex, then looked again, remarking in surprise, "It's nearly lunchtime, my Rose. Suppose we prepare a full meal for the three of us before you and I go back to the resort? We should have the ingredients for those salmon patties with tropical salsa that Ingrid made for us when I brought you home the day after the triplets were born."

"I could make salad to go with it," Anna-Kristina volunteered. "Magga sent me that recipe some time ago; her Gudrun makes it all the time and they both love it, so we tried it and the girls all think it's delicious. So we have it frequently too."

"She must have asked Ingrid for the recipe," Christian said, sounding astonished. "I never would have thought she'd do that. In any case, a salad would be good with it too."

"I'm already hungrier than ever just thinking of it," Leslie agreed. "Okay, let's do it."

Leslie started chopping fruit and mixing ingredients for the salsa while Christian helped Anna-Kristina take a lap or two around the front yard, then monitored her while she made a couple of slow circuits on her own. Then he brought her inside, put her at the table with the salad ingredients, and set about putting the salmon cakes together. Within half an hour they were eating, and Anna-Kristina closed her eyes after the first bite and groaned. "Oh, these are simply divine," she sighed, her tone rapturous.

Christian grinned at his wife. "She's all but delirious," he said. "I suppose nearly two weeks without solid food is a good excuse to wax melodic over a simple meal."

Leslie laughed. "In that case, my love, give her a break, at least for today."

Christian set up the first DVD for his niece while Anna-Kristina paced back and forth across the room with careful, measured steps; once she stumbled, but Leslie caught her and helped her regain her footing. "This is silly," the princess complained. "I feel like such an invalid. I wish you didn't have to take so much trouble over me."

"It'll take time for you to get back to full normal," Leslie told her. "Just try to be patient with it. It'll be all right, you have plenty of time. For now, rest a little bit and have fun watching the show. I'll be at the main house the rest of the day, so I'll leave you my cell phone, and if you need anything or have any questions, just call one of us."

"I have only one question," Anna-Kristina said. "Do you think Mr. Roarke would be willing to come back here with you this evening, so you can remember some more fantasies? The triplets would love it too, I know. Could you ask him?"

Christian shook his head with amused resignation, and Leslie grinned. "I guess we can look into that. For right now, you just get into 'King's Castle' here, and we'll see what we can do."

It was mid-afternoon before Leslie had a chance to relay the request to Roarke, since one of the fantasies had developed a very peculiar snag that caught Rogan too far out of his depth to resolve on his own. When Roarke heard what Anna-Kristina had asked for, he let out a laugh. "I must admit, I'm not surprised. But I don't object; it will give me some extra time with my grandchildren, since there's no doubt the triplets will insist on listening in as well. Go ahead and call Anna-Kristina now, and let her know."

So that evening, after they'd had supper and the triplets were dressed in pajamas and clustered around their grandfather, and Anastasia was settled on her cousin's lap with a teething ring to gnaw on, Christian, Leslie and Roarke made themselves comfortable and looked at one another. "Is there to be a theme to this, as there was the last time you did it?" Christian asked.

"Maybe only in that I thought we could remember a couple more from the year Lawrence was here," Leslie said.

"Very well," Roarke agreed, "what do you have in mind?"

Leslie smiled. "Well, how about this?..."


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § - November 19, 1983

"Ah, that's a nice young couple," Lawrence commented at sight of the man and woman, perhaps ten years or so Leslie's senior, who stepped out of the seaplane's hatch and onto the dock. They were dressed as if for a wedding or a formal banquet of some kind. "Here for a romantic holiday, I presume?"

Roarke seemed a bit pensive. "That remains to be seen, Lawrence."

"But they look so happy," the butler remarked in surprise.

"And one of them is; Mr. Gary Tucker is a very happy man. His wife, Kathleen, is another story. She's here to try to save their marriage."

"I don't follow you," Lawrence said cautiously.

"Me either," said Leslie. "Save it from what?"

"Well, you see, Mrs. Tucker has recently discovered that her husband has a mistress," Roarke explained.

"A mistress?" Lawrence repeated, and at Roarke's nod, said, "And he doesn't know he's been found out. No wonder he looks happy." Assaulted by Leslie's outraged look and Roarke's disapproving one, he added hastily, "Not that I approve."

"No, neither does Mrs. Tucker," said Roarke, straight-faced. Leslie took care to kill a grin as he went on, "Her fantasy is for her husband to make a choice between his wife and his mistress before they leave the island." Lawrence stared at him in disbelief for some reason; Leslie shook her head, unnoticed, and followed her guardian's attention back to the dock, where now they watched an older couple coming down the ramp, the woman well ahead of the man and both of them looking decidedly grim.

"What a contrast to the Tuckers," Leslie said. "They look...angry."

"Oh dear, she's right," Lawrence said in dismay. "They've come here on vacation together and they're not even speaking to each other. Doesn't bode well, does it, sir?"

Roarke gave them a reproving look. "I'm afraid you're both jumping to conclusions. The lady is Mrs. Joan Mallory, a widow from Coos Bay, Oregon; the gentleman is Mr. Alan Reynolds, a widower from Bangor, Maine. They have never seen each other before today."

"Oh, this should be interesting," Leslie said, waiting for more.

"We stand corrected," Lawrence said with a pointed look at her. "There will be no more jumping to conclusions for me, at least."

She glared at him. "My conclusion was completely different from yours, just in case you weren't sure."

"That will do," said Roarke firmly. "And thank you, Lawrence."

Upon which Lawrence offered, "I assume her fantasy is to recapture her lost youth."

Roarke's look told Leslie that Lawrence had done the very thing he had just said he wouldn't do. "No, Lawrence," he said coolly.

"No?" Lawrence looked abashed.

"No. Her fantasy is to get to know a suitable gentleman of her own age. Object: romance," Roarke said.

"Ah-ha. Then it is safe to conclude that Mrs. Mallory and Mr. Reynolds will not be strangers for very long," Lawrence ventured.

"Especially since they came here together," Leslie put in.

"Yes," Roarke agreed. "But I'm afraid Mrs. Mallory's problem cannot be solved with a mere kiss or two." Before either Leslie or Lawrence could ask for more information, Roarke's drink arrived, and he raised it in the weekly toast, while Leslie took a deep breath or two and told herself that this weekend, she and Lawrence would manage to get along with as little friction as possible...and then doubted it, yet again. _Though stranger things have happened... since we've managed it before!_

‡ ‡ ‡

Roarke, Leslie had long since learned, was as prone to sending Lawrence on mundane errands as he had been to doing the same to Tattoo, which was something of a relief for her. She accompanied her adoptive father, sans his butler, to a small lagoon near the hotel that had been developed over the summer and included an elegant terrace with a ceiling open to the sky and latticed walls, plus small tables meant for no more than two or three people at the most. He easily picked out the Tuckers at one of the tables, as only one or two others were occupied, and approached them with Leslie in tow as Gary Tucker arose, said something to his wife and popped a kiss on her lips before turning aside and nearly colliding with Roarke. "May I direct you somewhere, Mr. Tucker?" Roarke inquired.

Roarke's voice was cool, though still polite; but after a moment's startlement, Tucker responded with smooth aplomb. "No, thank you, Mr. Roarke." His mustache seemed, to Leslie at least, to lend his smile a slightly fake quality. "I'll find my way around." With that, he stepped around Roarke, gave Leslie a quick, dismissive nod, and left.

Roarke watched him go for a second or two, then turned to Mrs. Tucker. "May we?"

She gestured listlessly to the empty chairs, and both Roarke and Leslie sat down, taking in her dejected mien. "I hope he's not finding his way around to a phone to call _her,"_ she muttered gloomily.

Roarke regarded her with sympathy. "Why upset yourself by jumping to conclusions, Mrs. Tucker?"

"Because that's all I seem to do anymore, ever since I found about about them. When he's not with me, I'm sure he's with her, and when he _is_ with me, I'm sure he's _thinking_ about her." She propped her chin on her fist and stared into her drink.

Roarke glanced after the now-vanished Gary Tucker and shifted position in his chair, while Leslie folded her hands uncomfortably on the tabletop, interlacing her fingers. Roarke smiled quickly at her, then addressed their guest. "What are you willing to risk to find out the truth?" he asked with interest.

"Anything," Kathleen Tucker said immediately, with emphasis. "Anything."

"Well, then, would you and Mr. Tucker be good enough to join me in the Renaissance Garden at, uh...noon?"

She nodded. "All right."

Roarke smiled, rising. "Any member of my staff will direct you there. Will you excuse us?" He waited till Leslie had stood, then buttoned his jacket as he led the way off the terrace. She trailed along, giving them a good minute before she dared open her mouth.

"So what happens now?" she asked. "Poor Mrs. Tucker, I really feel for her."

Roarke smiled. "You have a good heart, my child. Come with me and we'll pay a little visit to another guest." More than that he wouldn't say, and she was forced to follow him to the waiting rover, from where he drove to the small lane where most of the bungalows were located and parked in front of one. He entered without knocking, to Leslie's surprise, but the woman sitting in a chair under a hair-drying helmet, with elbows resting on the chair arms and both hands raised, palms out, brightened at sight of him. "Well, Mrs. Mallory, I see your fantasy's well under way."

In response there was silence and a blank, questioning smile; Roarke hesitated, and Leslie prompted, "It's the hair dryer, Mr. Roarke. She can't hear you, it's too loud."

Roarke nodded and leaned over, bracing himself with his hands on his knees and raising his voice. "I see your fantasy has begun!"

"What?" the woman queried, blinking.

"Can you hear me, Mrs. Mallory?" Roarke asked in a near yell.

"What?" she yelled back.

Leslie snorted and looked sharply at the hairdresser, who nodded and raised the helmet back off Mrs. Mallory's head. "Thank you, Leslie," Roarke said and turned back to the guest once more. "How are you doing?"

Mrs. Mallory let out a relieved sigh and replied, "Better now that I know I'm not deaf." Roarke chuckled and straightened up, nodding in pleased approval. "Mr. Roarke, if you have a minute, I'd like to talk to you about something."

"Oh, certainly. Do you mind?" he asked of the manicurist who sat nearby; she shook her head quickly and departed, and Roarke settled himself on the stool she had been using while Leslie lingered nearby, waiting. "Ah...now." He looked at Mrs. Mallory expectantly.

"I'm starting to have second thoughts about my fantasy," she admitted.

"Oh?" Roarke prompted, surprised.

"Back home in Coos Bay, in the middle of a cold drizzle, coming to a tropical island and having a...well, a romance...it seemed like just what the doctor ordered." Roarke nodded encouragement, and Mrs. Mallory stumbled on. "But, well, now that I'm here, I feel, well, maybe...stupid. Which is an understatement."

"Is that really how you feel about it?" probed Roarke, pointed but gentle.

Mrs. Mallory smiled in concession. "I guess I can't fool you, Mr. Roarke. My real problem is, it's still too soon. My husband hasn't been dead that long."

"How long has it been?" Roarke asked, while Leslie shifted her weight uncomfortably, feeling like an intruder on a private conversation.

"Ten years," said Mrs. Mallory, freezing Leslie in place.

Even Roarke reacted to that. _"Ten_ years?" he repeated, eyes wide with incredulity.

"Well, it wasn't exactly yesterday," Mrs. Mallory began in concession, but just then there was a knock on the door and all three of them looked around. The door opened and Lawrence came in, followed by two young men toting a collection of eight or ten dresses on a rolling hanger bar.

"Here are the dresses for Mrs. Mallory's perusal, sir," Lawrence announced, actually rolling the R in _dresses_. Leslie had to squelch another smile.

"Excellent, Lawrence, excellent," said Roarke. He turned to Mrs. Mallory. "May I suggest that these gowns would be a wonderful addition to your wardrobe." As he spoke, Lawrence removed the first two from the rack and held them up to show them off. "That is, if you decide to go ahead with your fantasy."

Mrs. Mallory got up to stare at the dresses with shocked wonder. "These gowns—they'll be my wardrobe?"

Roarke nodded. "Indeed!"

"Give it a try, Mrs. Mallory," Leslie suggested. "I mean, you've already started getting the makeover. Why stop the fun right in the middle like that?"

Mrs. Mallory studied her in sheer surprise, then giggled, sounding surprisingly girlish. "Well, young Leslie, I think you've just convinced me. Let's go for it, Mr. Roarke—on with the fantasy!"

They all laughed, and Roarke went back to get the hairstylist and the manicurist while Lawrence helped Mrs. Mallory settle back into the chair and even replace the dryer helmet over her head, and Leslie showed the lady each gown individually. It already looked, she thought, as if at least one fantasy would be a success after all.

Roarke came back out with the two salon employees and nodded to Lawrence and Leslie. "I suggest we leave Mrs. Mallory to her makeover, and make a few rounds. Leslie and I have an appointment at lunchtime, and Lawrence, I would appreciate it if you would kindly collect supply inventory from the hotel, the supper club, the restaurant, and the bar at the swimming pool. I also need the weekly report from each of the marinas."

"Consider it done, sir," Lawrence said and departed. Leslie grinned at Mrs. Mallory before following Roarke out of the bungalow.

Not an hour later, she and Roarke were speaking with a couple of vacationers on the lagoon terrace at the hotel, answering a question they had had, when the selfsame Mrs. Mallory arrived at the entrance, looking quite unlike the somewhat drably dressed woman who had stepped off the plane that morning; in fact she appeared to have shed a good ten years. Roarke caught sight of her, excused himself and left Leslie behind to finish answering the question; she did so, a little bit on autopilot, but managed to retain enough presence of mind to ask if they had further questions before obtaining her release and joining Roarke. As she came within earshot, she heard Mrs. Mallory remark, "I don't even feel like me! And this..." She fingered the ruffled placket of her cheerful red blouse. "This is _very_ nice."

"Oh, it's better than nice," Roarke assured her with a smile, and Leslie nodded agreement. On Mrs. Mallory's beam, Roarke offered her an arm and added, "And now, there is someone I would like you to meet. May I?"

Mrs. Mallory slipped her arm through Roarke's and let him lead her to a table, where a man sat alone, facing away from them with his gaze trained across the water. Roarke stopped Mrs. Mallory beside the empty chair and made the introductions: "Mrs. Joan Mallory, Mr. Alan Reynolds."

Reynolds immediately arose and reached out for her hand; they peered at each other in surprise and asked in perfect chorus, "Don't I know you?" With that they both laughed, and Roarke chuckled with them while Leslie grinned.

"Even if you don't, I'm sure you'll both get acquainted in no time," Roarke said warmly. "Will you excuse me?"

"I'll see you later, Mr. Roarke," Reynolds said, and Mrs. Mallory thanked him as he collected Leslie and headed for the terrace entrance. Leslie glanced back once to see the pair take seats, and grinned hopefully.

"They'll probably figure out they were both on the morning plane," she said. "Either way, I really hope it works out for them. They both looked kind of...blue, I guess, coming off the plane. I mean...I know I said angry, but now that I look back, I guess they were just not very happy for some reason. Loneliness, maybe."

"Quite likely," Roarke agreed. "I suggest you take the opportunity to change your clothes before we go to our lunch appointment with Mrs. Tucker; we've been running around a good bit today, and I think you might prefer to freshen up a bit."

‡ ‡ ‡

Leslie decided on an all-white dress with clean lines and a simple cut, rather than the usual somewhat frilly, country-girl look that was fairly popular at the moment and was the style of her usual weekend outfits. Roarke had given her a gold chain necklace for her birthday six months before, and she put this on before emerging into the study and joining him for their walk to the long grassy promenade. As they emerged from a path onto the verdant expanse, they could see the Tuckers just being seated at a table; a moment later Lawrence drew up beside them and followed their gazes. "What a nice-looking couple," he said.

"Yes," Roarke agreed.

"Let's hope they stay that way," said Leslie through a heavy sigh.

Roarke smiled at her, then turned to Lawrence. "And Miss Sinclair...did you extend my invitation?" he inquired.

"Yes, sir—she's on her way now," Lawrence reported.

"Good," said Roarke, while Leslie wondered who Miss Sinclair was.

"If you don't mind, sir, I checked on the lady, and Miss Sinclair does not seem to appear on any of our lists as having put in a request for a fantasy," Lawrence remarked.

"We get just regular vacationers too, you know," Leslie informed him.

"Yes, Lawrence, I know, I know...and Leslie is right," Roarke said.

"That may be, sir, but then why is she here?"

"Because she is Mr. Tucker's mistress," said Roarke, as if it should have been obvious.

Leslie stared at him; Lawrence's eyes popped for a brief half-second before he asked in surprise, "The mistress of _that_ Mr. Tucker?"

This time, to Leslie's amazement, it was Roarke who provided the mildly sarcastic response: "I believe there is only one Mr. Tucker registered with us...isn't that so, Lawrence?"

Lawrence looked a bit chastened, nodding confirmation, and again Leslie had to bite back a grin. Then Roarke glanced past Lawrence, and Leslie looked around to see a pretty woman with hair the color of tarnished gold join them. "Ah, Miss Sinclair."

"You must be Mr. Roarke," she said, smiling brightly and shaking hands.

He gave her a slight bow. "Welcome to Fantasy Island."

"Well, thank you for the intriguing invitation," Miss Sinclair said.

"You are most welcome," Roarke responded.

She studied Roarke with a smile that Leslie couldn't help reading as a bit calculating. "And you still promise me that 'mysteriously unforgettable weekend' you spoke of?"

"Absolutely. It will begin if you will come right this way." Roarke reached for Miss Sinclair's hand and started to escort the woman toward the Tuckers' table, just as Leslie had feared he would do.

Lawrence caught him before he could go. "Uh, but sir...don't you think it's a bit crowded over there?"

"It will be, by at least one," Roarke said, making Lawrence and Leslie look at each other in consternation. "Miss Sinclair..." And off they went, with Leslie and Lawrence trailing behind, neither of them very sanguine about the encroaching situation.

"Mr. Roarke," Miss Sinclair said after a moment, "I love fun and games as much as anyone else...but I do like to know what game I'm playing. What's this about?"

"A marriage, Miss Sinclair. Uh, no...more precisely, a triangle, and the bringing together of the principal players."

She let out an amused grunt. "You sound like you need a social worker, or a stage manager. But not me, Mr. Roarke. I mean, where would I fit in?"

"Unfortunately," said Roarke, "in the middle." And before the woman could ask what he meant by that, they had reached the table they were aiming for, and Roarke performed the introductions: "Mrs. Kathleen Tucker, I would like you to meet Miss Helen Sinclair."

The reactions made Leslie flinch back a step or two: Helen's mouth dropped open; Tucker blurted, "Helen!" and Helen gasped, "Gary..." Kathleen bolted to her feet and exclaimed in indignant disbelief, "Helen!?"

"And now, if you'll excuse us, we must welcome the afternoon plane," said Roarke, in a gracious voice that carried the smallest undertone of satisfaction. "Will you excuse us?" He nodded to Leslie, who was only too happy to leave. Lawrence fell into step behind them without hesitation.

"I do believe you've done it now, sir," he remarked when they were at enough of a distance to reasonably assume they were out of earshot.

"Done what?" asked Roarke.

"Invited a lawsuit, I daresay," said Lawrence direly.

Leslie chanced a peek over one shoulder and noticed that Helen Sinclair had run off and was just now vanishing on the other side of the greensward; Kathleen whipped around and walked away even as she watched. "I think I might be inclined to agree," she admitted, hoping she didn't sound too reluctant.

Roarke gave them each a look that seemed faintly amused but mostly just mysterious. "Do you indeed? Well, we'll see," he said, entirely too serenely for Leslie's comfort, and continued to stroll down the path. Leslie and Lawrence looked at each other, but neither said a word; the walk back to the main house was silent, and so was their subsequent drive to the plane dock.


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § - November 19, 1983

Later that afternoon Roarke and Leslie, on their way to make a few routine rounds, stepped off the porch at the main house, only to see a familiar figure coasting toward them on a bike. It was Mrs. Mallory, who braked to a stop in front of them. "Well, Mrs. Mallory, you look very jaunty and dashing!" commented Roarke.

"And really happy, too," Leslie put in.

Mrs. Mallory laughed. "Oh, Mr. Roarke, I'm having such a wonderful time. I hope to get to the boutique before it closes. I have to get some new lipstick, and perfume, and...listen to me, I'm carrying on like a schoolgirl." Roarke was laughing quietly, and Leslie grinned, thrilled that they had at least one happy guest.

"Nothing wrong with that," she said.

Mrs. Mallory grinned back. "I guess not," she agreed.

"I'm glad everything is turning out as you have planned." Then Roarke seemed to remember something. "Oh...there is one thing—but I'm sure it will make no difference..."

"What is that?" Mrs. Mallory inquired, as Leslie tensed up suddenly, realizing what was coming. _Of course it had to happen,_ she thought, wishing she had stayed at the main house when Roarke had taken her and Lawrence off to meet the afternoon plane.

"Your son and his family have just arrived on the island," Roarke told her.

Mrs. Mallory's smile collapsed and she looked dismayed. "Oh no." She turned to the bike, put down the kickstand and went to the nearby iron bench, where she threw herself down in despair. "How did they find me?"

"Well, your son told me that he became worried when he noticed that some of your suitcases and your personal items were missing," Roarke explained, sitting beside her.

Leslie nodded, lingering near the bike. "And then I guess he found the itinerary for your trip," she added apologetically.

"Was there some reason you didn't wish your son to know your whereabouts?" asked Roarke with gentle perplexity.

Mrs. Mallory shifted her eyeballs to peer at him sidewise. "I couldn't very well tell him I was running away from home to...well, you know..." She shrugged, like a chastened child whose parents have just discovered her latest major transgression. Roarke offered a sympathetic smile, but there wasn't much he could say.

Before anyone could come up with a comment of any kind, there was a stern hail from somewhere nearby. "Mother..." Mrs. Mallory looked around in alarm, and she and Roarke arose as Leslie turned to behold a man and woman somewhere in their thirties and a girl five or six years younger than Leslie approaching. "Mother! We were so worried about you!" The man took Mrs. Mallory's hands and kissed her cheek.

"Oh, Mom, you look terrific!" his wife exclaimed enthusiastically, taking her turn to kiss Mrs. Mallory's cheek.

"Thanks," she murmured, accepting her granddaughter's hug. "I'm glad to see you... but I, I, uh...I really must be going..."

Leslie noticed her father's worried scowl and bit her lip as Mallory asked suspiciously of his mother, "What's going on here?"

"Nothing," she replied. "I'm just having a little holiday."

"A holiday," he repeated skeptically. "Uh-huh. That's it, isn't it." He glanced at his wife and daughter. "You think we've been neglecting you at home, so you decided to teach us a lesson—is that it?"

"Richard," his mother scolded, "I have no idea what you're talking about. I've never thought that, ever. And now I really must be on my way." With that, she went to the bike, booted up the kickstand and jumped on.

"Where're you going? We just got here!" Richard Mallory protested.

"Nice seeing you all!" his mother called back, and pushed off on the bike.

"Mr. Roarke?" Richard began.

Roarke turned to him and raised both hands. "I'm sorry, Mr. Mallory, I'm sorry—I never interfere in family matters." He caught himself when he noticed the stern glare Leslie was drilling him with, and corrected, "Well, almost never. Will you excuse me." He brushed past Leslie and retreated into the house.

That left Leslie there alone facing Richard Mallory and his family; realizing it, she cleared her throat, trying not to let her consternation show. _I'll get you for this later, Mr. Roarke, I swear it!_ She gestured to the nearby rover. "We have some empty bungalows this weekend, if you'd like to get settled into one," she offered.

"Well, thank you," said Richard Mallory, sounding a little less strident than he had a moment before. "As you no doubt just saw, that was my mother who just tore out of here...I'm her son Richard, and this is my wife Lisa and my daughter Michelle."

"I'm Leslie Hamilton," Leslie told them and managed a reasonable facsimile of a cheery smile of welcome. "Right this way, just grab your bags."

As soon as she had deposited the family into a bungalow—giving them the full list of the resort's amenities to forestall any questions—she drove back to the main house with a sense of relief and a growing annoyance that spawned frustration when she discovered that Roarke wasn't in the study. "Great," she muttered, "just great. Somehow, some way, you just have to spoil everything, don't you. I bet I know whose fault this is."

"And whose fault would it be then, miss?" asked Lawrence, entering the house unexpectedly just then from the terrace.

 _Yours,_ she thought uncharitably, but only shook her head. "Oh, never mind me, I'm just disgusted by the way things are going. Where's Mr. Roarke?"

"I haven't seen him for a while, miss. I'm certain he's gone to attend to someone's fantasy, though. Perhaps you'd care to wait here for him, and try to get through some of that paperwork while you're here." He gestured at the desk.

She threw him a look that made his eyes get comically wide with overdone offense, but it achieved the goal of making him depart. She fell into Roarke's chair and sifted listlessly through the mail, thinking wistfully that all this might have had a much happier outlook if only Tattoo were still here. At least she'd be much less depressed; she and Tattoo could have speculated on what Roarke's next move would be.

The evening meal was stilted; Lawrence talked business as long as he could, till he ran out of updates and had to concede to the stiff and pressing silence that inevitably followed. Leslie ate slowly, not feeling especially hungry, but unwilling to face any haranguing from Mariki. Roarke said little other than making occasional acknowledgment that he was listening to Lawrence, but after Lawrence sputtered to a halt, he fell silent too.

Once the meal ended, he suggested to Lawrence that he supervise the luau and asked Leslie to stay in the office and take any phone calls, before leaving himself to walk some trails and think a bit. He knew Leslie was upset with him, and he knew why; unfortunately, for once, he had begun to second-guess himself a bit. He had had his reasons for doing what he had done with the Tuckers and Helen Sinclair; but had they been good ones, after all? He came upon a bench and settled onto it, gazing into space and considering it.

Then an indignant female voice sent his thoughts fleeing into hiding for the moment. "Mr. Roarke!" He looked around to see Kathleen Tucker standing there glaring at him.

He said carefully, "I thought you might need to talk," and gestured to the space beside him, making as if to stand up.

But Kathleen didn't bother to accept or even acknowledge the invitation; she simply started right in on him. "How could you do that to me? How could you spring his mistress on me like that?"

Roarke decided he was in this for weal or for woe, and might as well follow through. Rising, he informed her, "It's called confrontational therapy. It's very difficult to fight an enemy you've never seen."

"And what did I see?" she retorted. "She's not as gorgeous as I expected. And she's not some eighteen-year-old nymphette." That got a raised-eyebrow look from Roarke, who fleetingly wondered if Kathleen realized that Leslie was that age and most likely would have taken offense—embarrassed offense, no doubt, but offense all the same. "Oh, what's wrong with me anyway, that he wants to have her?"

"It's not necessarily that anything is wrong with you," Roarke said, falling into step beside her as she began to meander down the path. "Some men just like the adventure, the excitement, of someone new."

"So the marriage gets stale and the romance isn't there anymore." She frowned, and Roarke almost said something, but then Kathleen muttered, "Oh, who am I kidding. It's over between Gary and me."

"You wouldn't be here if you really thought that, would you," Roarke said, stopping her there in the path. "No, Mrs. Tucker, you've come to Fantasy Island to find out if you can save your marriage, when other women might have given up."

"Oh, do you think there's still a chance?" Kathleen asked, brightening with hope.

Roarke regarded her critically. "The answer to that question is exactly what your fantasy is all about, isn't it?"

Kathleen stared at him, then nodded, her face hardening with determination. "Okay. I may not win, but that octopus is gonna know she's in for a helluva fight."

"Good girl," Roarke encouraged her.

"He wants adventure? He wants surprise? He wants something new? I'll give him something new. He ain't seen nothin' yet." With a smirk—and clearly a plan—Kathleen Tucker strode away down the trail, and Roarke watched her go, newly bewildered even when she came back long enough to deliver a heartfelt thanks before hastening away again. Just what, he wondered, both intrigued and a little disquieted, was she up to?

He returned to the main house at some leisure, and found Leslie there, sitting with her chin on her fist, with a pile of letters, some opened and some still sealed, scattered all over the desktop while she doodled on a scratch pad with the stub of a pencil. She didn't seem to realize he was there till he deliberately made a little extra noise with his shoes on the wooden floor surrounding the Persian rug. Then her head shot up and she stared at him, startled. "What're you doing here?" she blurted before she could stop herself.

"I live here," Roarke replied dryly. "I trust you don't mind if I come into my own house and change my clothes."

Leslie blushed and hung her head, shrugging. "Sorry," she mumbled and began to stand the pencil on end, sliding her fingers down it, flipping it over, standing it on the eraser end, and repeating the action again and again. Roarke watched her for a moment, but she seemed engrossed. After a long minute and a half, she lifted her head and peered at him from under her bangs. "Thought you had to change."

"Has it been that quiet around here?" he asked mildly.

"Better quiet than fighting with Lawrence," she mumbled, shrugging again.

Roarke chuckled then and approached the desk, taking one of the chairs in front of it. "Leslie, I realize you disapprove greatly of my actions with the Tucker fantasy, but I had my reasons for taking those actions. However...it may interest you to know that, thanks to your indignation over the incident, I had some second thoughts about it and took the time to consider it carefully." He smiled at her astonished look.

"You did?" At his nod, she reddened again. "I don't know why. I mean...it's not like I'm the expert of the world on what you do or why you do it. The whole idea that you'd take my hotheaded opinion into serious consideration..."

Roarke laughed. "You need not denigrate yourself to that extent, Leslie Susan."

"Well, no...but I guess it wasn't really that, so much as the fact that you claimed never to interfere in family affairs when that's exactly what you did with the Tuckers. Imagine what Lawrence would've said if he'd overheard that."

"Are you telling me I got off easy with you?" Roarke asked her whimsically, and laughed again when she rolled her eyes. "Even I am prone to slips of the tongue on occasion, my dear daughter, and it might behoove you to remember that when you begin to elevate me to a pedestal I have no wish to occupy." He smiled and patted her hand at sight of her latest sheepish blush. "Let's forget it, shall we? I have someone to see, and to that end, I'd better hurry upstairs and change before the night grows too much older."

"Who're you seeing?" she wanted to know.

He smiled. "Mr. Tucker. I have a few 'interfering' words to say to him as well." Leslie laughed at that, and he retreated upstairs, chuckling.

Some twenty minutes later, he wandered into the luau clearing—now boasting a bar, a small stage and a dance floor—where the Saturday-night party was in full swing and most of the audience was being captivated by a fire dancer performing unusually intricate tricks. There was but one person at the bar, namely Gary Tucker, who sat hunched over a drink; Roarke strolled in and took the stool beside Tucker, nonchalant and pretending not to notice the man, though he was well aware of Tucker peering over his shoulder as if looking for someone before turning to him and saying a bit belligerently, "You must think I'm a real lowlife, don'tcha?"

Roarke studied him for a second or two, watching him stir his drink with a swizzle stick, before replying, "I don't take it upon myself to judge people, Mr. Tucker. But now that you mention it..."

Tucker's head came up sharply before he subsided. "Well, I...I didn't mean to hurt either one of them." He stared at Roarke as though in challenge.

Roarke stared right back and said, "Sadly, there are some situations which do not have in them the ingredients of success."

Tucker sighed. "They're, uh...they're both terrific. Kathleen is safe; Helen is...exciting. I need them both."

"Yes," Roarke mused. "I tried to explain your attitude to your wife."

"And?" said Tucker with interest.

Roarke smiled genially. "Men have been trying to expound upon your theory for thousands of years. Perhaps you'll have better luck. And if you do, Mr. Tucker," he concluded, rising, "you'll be a legend in your own time. Will you excuse me?" He left without waiting for a response, satisfied that he'd at least given Tucker something to mull over.

Leslie was still at the desk reading letters when he got back, though he caught her smack in the middle of a yawn as he walked in. Laughing, he suggested, "Perhaps you'd better go to bed. You've had a long day."

"Oh, I'll be all right, I just need to move around a little. What'd Mr. Tucker say?" she asked eagerly, clearly more alert now.

Roarke shook his head. "Something tells me he's going to do his utmost to hold onto both his wife and his mistress."

Leslie rolled her eyes. "And he thinks they'll let him get away with that? He's got another think coming, in that case. Some men can be so dumb—they carry on as if a woman doesn't know how to think for herself. Anybody ever does that to me, I'll set him straight so fast he'll still be spinning around by the time I've walked out the door."

Roarke grinned at that. "Well, good for you," he said. "There is no doubt in my mind that Mr. Tucker will have a major decision to make—and if he doesn't, then Mrs. Tucker and Miss Sinclair will do it for him. All right, I think it's time we get some sleep."

§ § § - November 20, 1983

The morning was quiet after all the excitement of the previous day, giving Roarke and Leslie a chance to catch up on some paperwork and Lawrence the opportunity to "tidy up the study", as he put it. They had lunch on the veranda, with Lawrence putting in a surprise request for some sort of "trifle", which turned out to be a layered dessert presented in a large clear footed serving bowl shaped like a cylinder. "I'll have you know, Mr. Cornwell-McKinnie," said Mariki tartly, "that this took me an hour to put together, so you'd better appreciate it." She stalked away without waiting for his reply.

Leslie, mouth open with surprise and burgeoning glee, watched her go; Roarke, too, gazed after her in bemusement. But Lawrence had only one question: "How did she find out what my surname is?" At which Leslie and Roarke snapped around to stare at him, then at each other, and both began to laugh in spite of themselves.

Once the meal was over, they went to the pond restaurant with its new lounge, including a bar, stage and dance floor; Roarke and Leslie checked with the bartender about supplies, while Lawrence perused the room looking for Kathleen Tucker, as Roarke had asked him to do. But it wasn't till he noticed a new couple step out onto the dance floor that he finally spied her. "Oh, there's Mrs. Tucker now."

Roarke and Leslie followed his pointing finger and saw Kathleen dancing with enthusiastic energy; her partner was a slender dark-haired man with a mustache ( _awful lot of mustaches on the island lately,_ Leslie found herself thinking) who was dressed surprisingly conservatively for a young single man in this day and age—in an ecru jacket and slacks with a shirt that nearly matched his dark-brown hair. "Wow," Leslie murmured.

"Apparently the lady has taken charge of her own destiny," commented Roarke.

"And I say, bully for her," Lawrence announced, earning a curious look from Roarke and a smirk from Leslie. Though hers went unnoticed, Lawrence did turn to Roarke for his reaction and looked a little abashed, schooling his features; but Leslie noticed the twinkle in Roarke's eyes and his slight smile, and grinned, watching Kathleen dance.

The music changed to a somewhat mellower tune, and Roarke straightened, pulling his jacket around enough to button it. "Perhaps I'd better find out what Mrs. Tucker is up to," he mused, strolling out onto the dance floor.

"Why is he so suspicious, I wonder?" Lawrence mused, mostly to himself.

"Because Mrs. Tucker supposedly wanted to save her marriage," said Leslie, eyeing him in surprise. "Remember? If she really wants to do that, then why is she dancing with some other guy? I hope he can figure out what's going on."

Roarke cut in on Kathleen's partner, who backed off with some reluctance but no protest, and turned to her. "May I?"

"Oh," said Kathleen, looking pleasantly surprised. "I didn't know the fantasy included a dance with the host." Roarke smiled at that, and they fell in time with the music.

After a moment he inquired, "Are you enjoying your fantasy, Mrs. Tucker?"

"Well, it didn't turn out exactly like I expected, but yes, I'm enjoying it," she said.

"With strange men you meet at bars?" Roarke asked.

"Why not?" returned Kathleen, defensive and defiant. "He thinks I'm smart, _and_ he thinks I'm sexy—two things about me my husband seems to have overlooked."

Roarke stopped moving then and studied her, then inquired with a touch of remonstration, "Are you ready to end your fantasy, Mrs. Tucker?"

She stopped too, eyes widening. "Uh-oh...something bad's gonna happen, right?" She rolled her eyeballs in disgust. "I knew it—I _knew_ it!"

"I can control only the present," Roarke told her. "The future is up to you."

"Well..." Kathleen considered it. "I don't seem to have that much to lose, so I'm gonna stick with it." Roarke nodded; she excused herself and he let her go, but he had to wonder what her plan was, especially when she rejoined her dance partner at the bar.

"So what's the story?" asked Leslie when he came back.

"Last night," Roarke said slowly, "Mrs. Tucker was determined to win her husband back. Now she seems to have given up on him. Yet she has decided not to end her fantasy. This grows more and more intriguing." He took in Lawrence's and Leslie's expressions and chuckled suddenly. "I am not omnipotent, you two; don't look at me like that. We have some other errands to run, so we'd better move along."

The day remained quiet for the most part, a great contrast to Saturday. Leslie got a call from Maureen, to her immense surprise, and Roarke allowed her to take it, knowing that Maureen was as busy working in her mother's catering business as Leslie was working with him, and that her other friends had all gone off-island for college, thus making her life a good deal lonelier. The girls were still talking when Lawrence came in from some errand or another, looking flustered enough that he didn't seem to notice Leslie on the phone where he would normally have emitted some cutting remark. "Are you all right, Lawrence?" Roarke inquired, looking up from the ledger.

"Ah, well..." Lawrence drew himself up to his full height, as if afraid he might have suffered some loss of dignity, and cleared his throat. "My apologies, sir, but I inadvertently witnessed part of a confrontation between Mr. Tucker and Miss Sinclair." At Roarke's quizzical look, he elaborated, with some reluctance: "It seems he is preparing to move in with her, and she is raising some very strong objections."

"Ah, I see," Roarke said, settling back in the chair and smiling faintly. "Precisely as I suspected would happen. Thank you, Lawrence."

Lawrence stared at him in amazement. "Sir?"

"Go on about your other duties," Roarke said reassuringly. "You need not worry any further about our guests this afternoon. Thank you."

It seemed to take a minute for this to sink in; then Lawrence blinked and again pulled himself up straight. "Of course, sir." He looked a bit bewildered, but nonetheless walked out, pulling the new inner-foyer doors closed behind him.

A minute or two later Leslie wound up the call and replaced the receiver. "I'm surprised Lawrence didn't say something snarky about personal calls," she commented.

Roarke smiled, vastly amused. "Lawrence was preoccupied," he understated, and at her eager, questioning look, told her what the butler had related to him.

"Ha," Leslie said in delight, grinning and clapping her hands together once. "I think Gary Tucker is in the process of learning a nasty little lesson. Yay for Miss Sinclair."

Roarke chuckled. "He hasn't finished learning it as yet, my dear Leslie, so your celebration may be somewhat premature. Would you go to the kitchen for me, please, and check with Mariki in regard to a shopping list?"

They saw no one from either of that weekend's fantasies until well into the evening, when supper was long over, Lawrence had gone home to his little cottage for the night, and dark had fallen. Roarke and Leslie were on the terrace behind the study; Roarke was doing research on some esoteric subject and taking notes, while Leslie was rereading one of her favorite books. Crickets and other night creatures provided a pleasant white-noise backdrop, and in a tree nearby, a night crier sang its plaintive lament from time to time.

Then the tranquility was smashed to bits when a very outraged Richard Mallory stalked onto the terrace from the study. "Aha, there you are. I've got some serious bones to pick with you, Roarke. What you've done with my mother—it's shameful, it's shocking. In fact...I am _more_ than shocked, I'm simply _appalled_ that you obviously have no idea about the shamelessly flagrant behavior that's running rampant on this island of yours!"

Roarke looked up at that point, stacking a few papers together; he seemed remarkably calm, while the burner under Leslie's temper had been instantly turned on high and was doing its job with great efficiency and speed. She was glaring at Mallory, who didn't seem to notice. Roarke did, though, and glanced at her with a smile. "Calm yourself, Leslie," he said before gathering his notes and books together and arising; the smile disappeared as he got to his feet. "You no doubt are referring to your wayward mother," he observed, making the word _wayward_ sound as if he had put it in quotation marks, "and Mr. Reynolds, who are fast becoming the scandal of Fantasy Island." His tone took on an indulgent edge.

"They certainly are," Mallory ranted. "Cavorting around the way they are?"

"Cavorting?" repeated Roarke, watching Leslie slam her book shut and rocket to her own feet as he stacked his materials together, before eyeing Mallory and striding into the study. She followed, giving Mallory a wide berth and a look of exaggerated revulsion. "By whose sense of morality?"

"Morality! Ha- _ha,"_ scoffed Mallory. "I can tell you, there'd be no mistake in my mother's mind what morality meant when my father was alive, you can bet!" He leaned over the desk, yelling, while Roarke put away his books and Leslie stood at the foot of the stairs, watching and wishing she could vent, even if only a little.

"Well, perhaps it would have been better all around if she had just jumped into his funeral pyre," Roarke offered with subtle sarcasm.

"That's a low blow, Mr. Roarke," Mallory said, offended.

"But close to the mark, nevertheless," Roarke retorted.

"Now wait a minute—"

Roarke broke in, "You've become the judge of when grandmothers can no longer think about romance."

For the first time Mallory seemed taken aback. "I didn't say that."

"What about your own wife?" Roarke asked then, and Leslie began to simmer down, enjoying her adoptive father's counterattack immensely.

Mallory looked annoyed. "Would you leave my wife out of this?"

"How can I? At what age will you decide to move her into a separate bedroom? Sixty? Sixty-two?" Roarke waited, but when Mallory gaped at him, dumbfounded, he arose and continued with deceptive friendliness. "Perhaps when you put in for Social Security, at sixty-five...yes, that seems to be the universally accepted age when it can be assumed that life is over." He settled on the front edge of the desk, nodding, then watched the stunned and chastened Mallory lower himself into a chair. Leslie smiled a little, happy to see that Roarke had gotten through, but at the same time realizing that she herself was learning a little something as well. She suddenly missed her grandmother, with an intensity she hadn't felt in several years, and slowly sat down on the steps.

Roarke noticed, but set it aside for the moment, focusing on Mallory, who mumbled, "When you make me look at myself like that, I really don't like what I see." He peered up at Roarke, who simply nodded a little; Mallory nodded back, as if he had just received and registered a very important message. After a minute he drew in a deep breath, released it in a loud gust, and stood up, offering a hand. "Thank you, Mr. Roarke. Thank you." They shook hands, and Roarke watched Mallory leave, waiting till the doors had closed after him before turning to Leslie.

"Are you all right, child?" he queried, joining her on the step where she sat.

She shrugged one shoulder and smiled at him. "Oh, I guess I will be. It's just that...I started thinking about my grandmother. She was widowed when Mom was still a little girl. I wonder if...if she'd have ever gone through with a romance like that, if she'd found one. I mean, I don't think Mom would've minded, and Michael wouldn't have cared. And the twins and I wouldn't have known any better. I just wonder..."

"Everyone is different, Leslie," Roarke said, laying a hand on her shoulder and rubbing his thumb back and forth in a soothing motion. "Perhaps your grandmother was content enough to raise your mother and then to enjoy her granddaughters. The simple point here is that it's no one else's place to dictate how anyone can spend his or her life, no matter at what stage that life may be. For some people, that lesson never comes."

She nodded thoughtfully. "Well, I'm glad Richard Mallory figured it out." She focused on him then and grinned a wistful little grin. "You know, if I hang around you long enough, maybe some of that calm and biting wit'll rub off on me someday, and I can cut loudmouths down to size the same way you just did."

Roarke stared at her in amazement for half a second before he burst out laughing and patted her shoulder. "I notice you managed to restrain yourself this time," he teased her. "Perhaps you're already learning." She snickered, and he arose, giving her a hand to her own feet. "It'll be an early morning, as you know, so let's get a little sleep."


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § - November 21, 1983

Before Leslie, or Joan Mallory, could ask why the latter had come along only with Alan Reynolds, Roarke explained to her, "I saw your son and his family off on another plane, Mrs. Mallory. They say they'll see you at home."

"I would have joined them, but I had other plans this morning," Mrs. Mallory said, squeezing Reynolds' arm.

Roarke smiled broadly. "It appears you've had a very successful fantasy."

"Oh, more than a fantasy, Mr. Roarke—a wonderful new reality. I'm very grateful to you—and to Alan."

"My pleasure," Roarke said.

"No more than it was mine, Mr. Roarke," said Reynolds, "and for that, I thank you too." He shook hands, and they all murmured goodbyes and watched the couple leave.

Then Lawrence turned to Roarke. "Excuse me, sir, but you never did tell me what Mr. Reynolds' fantasy was."

"Come to think of it," Leslie realized, "yeah...so what was it?"

"Surely you two must have guessed," Roarke said in surprise, and watched Lawrence shake his head blankly and Leslie perform a sheepish shrug. "Mr. Reynolds' fantasy was realized at the same time as Mrs. Mallory's."

Leslie grinned, and Lawrence looked delighted. "Smashing, sir. Simply smashing."

Once they had waved off the new couple, Roarke turned to the rover that pulled up, helping Kathleen Tucker out of the car. Leslie noticed she moved with slow care, and gave the woman an odd look as Roarke began, "Well, Mrs. Tucker—" Kathleen raised a hand in protest, and Roarke said apologetically, "Oh, I'm terribly sorry."

Kathleen smiled and murmured, "Thank you, Mr. Roarke, for everything—for showing me how to make my own choice. I realize now that's what you were trying to get me to do all along."

"Ah...when you deal with—" Roarke lowered his voice again when Kathleen winced, and said, "When you deal with a thoroughbred, there is no need to do it with a whip."

Kathleen chuckled. "Thank you for using a velvet glove while you were at it." She gave him a kiss on the cheek, turned to Lawrence with a smile, and gave Leslie a game little grin before murmuring, "Thank you...oh, I hope they have aspirin on the plane." She stumbled off, holding a hand against her temple.

"Goodness," Lawrence said, shaking his head. "Is she suffering from what I think she's suffering from?"

"A hangover," said Leslie. "That's all it can be. I'd love to know what happened."

"Then perhaps you can have a chat with Miss Helen Sinclair," Roarke said impishly. "She is still on the island, at least till this afternoon, and you might take an hour or so to drop in on her at her bungalow, ask her if she has found everything to her satisfaction, and then ease your overwhelming curiosity."

Leslie snickered, especially when Lawrence contrived to look outraged. "Y'know, I just might do that." She and Roarke laughed at Lawrence's expression and turned for one last wave to their departing guests.

§ § § - October 17, 2009

"And you asked, of course, didn't you?" Christian inquired with a broad grin.

"Of course I did," said Leslie with a smirk, and he burst out laughing. "Turns out that she and Mrs. Tucker had gotten together at Miss Sinclair's bungalow the night before. They were both already pretty drunk, so Mrs. Tucker climbed into Miss Sinclair's jacuzzi tub, shoes and all—" at this Christian winced playfully "—sat right down, and proceeded to tell Miss Sinclair that Gary Tucker was all hers. But Miss Sinclair didn't want him either; she liked her nice single life just the way it was. The way she put it was that she was a 'professional girlfriend'." Christian laughed again and Anna-Kristina's eyes widened. "After a lot of talking and a lot more drinking, they decided neither of them needed him, and were just cackling their celebration of this mutual rejection when Tucker showed up. He mistook their drunken congeniality for friendship and their acceptance of his not wanting to give up either one of them, and started trying to take advantage, and that's when they both shoved him into the jacuzzi and walked out. I heard he slunk off the island in the middle of the day Monday. Miss Sinclair stayed another week and had a great old time."

The other adults laughed and Anastasia chortled and gurgled in response, but the triplets were confused. "What's drunk, Mommy?" Susanna asked.

Roarke raised both brows and regarded Christian and Leslie with enormous amusement. "Yes, indeed...I should greatly enjoy hearing your explanation."

Leslie shot him a dirty look and Christian shook his head indulgently. "You see, _lillan min,_ there are certain kinds of drinks that only grownups drink. Do you remember the apple wine we have sometimes from Lilla Jordsö?" At her nod, he went on, "Well, it contains something called alcohol. If you drink too much of that, it does strange things to your brain, and that can make you do very foolish and dangerous things. But many grownups like it, so they don't always pay attention to how much of it they drink, and they have too much. That's called getting drunk. And in the morning, they feel bad, often sick or with a headache or both. That's a hangover."

"Oh," murmured Susanna, frowning.

"That sounds yucky," said Karina. "I'm not gonna do that. I don't like feeling sick."

Christian grinned. "Very smart, _lillan min."_ He consulted his Rolex. "It's a little after eight. How are you feeling, Mr. Roarke?"

"Surprisingly well," Roarke observed, still smiling. "That was a very inventive and simple explanation, Christian—very well done. Perhaps we have time for one more."

"One more explanation?" said Anna-Kristina blankly.

Christian snorted with disbelieving laughter, and Leslie, giggling, clarified, "One more fantasy! I had another one in mind...Father handled the really touchy fantasy, but I saw more of the other one, which was actually pretty funny a lot of the time. Considering the size of certain ears in here, Father, I say we stick with the funny one."

"If you're thinking of the one I believe you are, that would be very wise," Roarke said, making Christian stare at him.

"How do you know which one she's thinking of?" he demanded.

"He forgot to tell you he's a mind-reader, my love," Leslie teased him, dropping a kiss on his lips. "Want something else to drink before we start, Father?"

Roarke declined, but Christian followed Leslie into the kitchen and asked in a low tone, "What exactly was involved in the one you referred to as touchy?"

"A woman was raped before she got married, and she was looking for some way to explain her fears of sex to her husband—she was terrified he'd reject her if she told him. Let's just say it had a happy ending. I think Anna-Kristina might be as upset as the kids, since the rapist turned out to have followed her onto the island and nearly got away with doing it again, except he was caught in the act—and telling that one would just be too scary as well as too much for them. So we'll stick with the shy singer."

Christian nodded. "I think that's a good idea. Well enough, then, we'll do it your way. But one thing, while we have a moment." He pulled her toward him and treated them both to a long kiss that left Leslie a little breathless when he withdrew.

"Oh, Christian Enstad, you really know how to shift a woman's focus off what she's supposed to be doing," she muttered with mock annoyance, and he grinned.

"That's quite a compliment, my Rose, suggesting I could do that to just any woman," he teased her, and she gave him a threatening look that widened his grin. "But trust me, the only one I want to do that to is you. Come on, get your refreshment and let's get this done before the children are late to bed."

A minute later they had resumed their seats beside each other on the couch, noting the way the triplets insisted on crowding into Roarke's lap even now; since he was in a chair, he had suggested the children take turns, though he'd still found himself with two at a time sitting there and the third child hanging impatiently off a chair arm. They had just shifted places again, and this time it was Karina who was left out, so she plodded over to the sofa and wedged herself in between her parents after Leslie told them this would be the last story. "I'm ready, Mommy," she said.

"Us too," Tobias urged. "Do we get to hear a scary one now?"

"Why do boys always love scary things?" Anna-Kristina groaned.

Christian laughed. "No fears, _Kattersprinsessan_ , Leslie tells me this will be a funny one, so that should ease your mind. Mr. Roarke...my Rose...it's all yours."

§ § § - March 3, 1984

"A honeymoon couple," Lawrence said as the two young people stepped out of the plane. "I can always tell."

"Really," said Roarke. "Well, Mr. Christopher Marshall and his wife Aimee have been married for almost a year."

"So much for the newlyweds," Leslie commented with a grin.

"Oh," Lawrence said, a little subdued. "Then it's obvious they've come to celebrate their anniversary."

Roarke eyed him. "At this moment, it's not certain they'll still be together for their first anniversary."

"Why not? They look happy," Leslie noted.

"Unfortunately," Roarke told her, "Mrs. Marshall is the victim of a memory that terrifies her."

"Oh, I see," murmured Lawrence, "and he has brought her to Fantasy Island to seek your help."

"No, Lawrence. It's her fantasy. She hasn't told him why they have come. Mrs. Marshall wants to rid herself of this dark secret before he finds out, and it destroys their future." Roarke's voice was grave and quiet; Leslie and Lawrence looked at each other, very briefly, before she turned to see who else was coming and beheld a handsome, dark-haired man—yet another mustache owner—step out of the hatch and look around with a wondering smile that to Leslie seemed quite gentle.

"Mr. Robert Smith, right, sir?" Lawrence said then.

"That's right, Lawrence," Roarke said.

Lawrence peered at the man, who had a faintly furtive look to him. "Why do I get the feeling he'd be more comfortable arriving at midnight in a dark place?"

Leslie laughed, and Roarke said in amusement, "Because instinctively, you've put your finger on the source of Mr. Smith's personality problem. He's a very shy man, a singer, who just can't...as they say, 'let himself go'."

"Shy singer?" Leslie said. "That sounds like an oxymoron." Roarke chuckled at that; she ignored the odd look she got from Lawrence, and he turned to Roarke after a moment.

"Well, it doesn't sound like one of your more difficult fantasies, sir," he said.

Roarke eyed him sidelong. "Don't be too sure, Lawrence. You see, when a person's alter ego is released, there is no telling in advance whether that ego will solve his problem, or totally destroy him." As Lawrence twisted his head around to stare dubiously at Smith and Leslie slowly shook her head, Roarke accepted the wineglass and made the weekly toast. Leslie noted the mere trace of a smile on Smith's face. _You need to have more faith than that,_ she thought, but she found herself wondering exactly what Roarke intended to do.

‡ ‡ ‡

Roarke had deliberately sent Leslie on an errand, and she didn't return from it till almost an hour had passed; it was a long drive back from the fishing village, and she enjoyed the drive, letting the wind toss her long hair and turning up the radio to listen to her favorite new-wave tunes on the radio. She was still humming along with the last one she had heard when she came into the house and found Roarke standing in the study, looking worried. "Is everything okay?" she asked.

He turned sharply and smiled at her. "The Marshall fantasy will be difficult," he mused, "but for the moment we need to concentrate on the Smith fantasy. Since Lawrence is on another errand, suppose you wait here and allow me to change, and you can accompany me to the lounge at the restaurant."

She agreed and watched him go upstairs, humming to herself again and studying the intricate pencil drawing displayed on an easel in the middle of the room. Roarke had signed his name in the bottom right corner, but she still found it hard to believe it was his work; he had so little time for extracurricular activities that she could count on one hand the number of times she had ever seen him doing much other than riding. It was Tattoo she thought of as the artist. She was picking out details in the sketch when Roarke returned, dressed in his usual white three-piece suit. "Let's go, Leslie. Ah, I see you've discovered my sketch."

"I never see you doing art," Leslie remarked. "I didn't know you could."

Roarke smiled. "There's a great deal you don't know about me, I daresay. That's for later, though. We have an appointment, and we don't want to be late."

They met Robert Smith in front of the restaurant and took him to the lounge, which at this early hour was empty. "I've arranged for you to sing here tomorrow night, Mr. Smith," Roarke explained, leading him down the stairs into the large sunken room with Leslie a couple of steps behind. "I believe we're going to have a sellout audience. Oh, by the way...I took certain artistic liberties with the publicity stills you sent me." He reached for a life-sized cardboard cutout that stood nearby and turned it around so they could all see the figure on the front. It was Robert Smith, dressed in a tux and in a performance pose, his face caught in an expression of joyful exuberance in what he was doing. Leslie noticed the hairstyle was different too; on the cutout Smith had dark wavy hair, while in person he had carefully groomed it into what she thought of as "TV news-anchor" hair.

Smith peered at the cutout dubiously as Roarke inquired, "How do you like it?"

"That's not me," Smith said with a bemused huff, gesturing at it. His voice was soft and a little high-pitched with what had to be an innate lack of self-confidence.

"Oh, but it is," Roarke assured him. "The _new_ you, Mr. Smith!"

"I think it's hopeless, Mr. Roarke," Smith confessed, tossing him a doubtful look. "Oh, sure, one part of me wants to be macho and in control; the part I'm stuck with is shy and does his best singing in the shower." Leslie grinned at that.

Roarke chuckled too and led him along the floor toward the small raised stage. "There are two such personalities in each of us, Mr. Smith: one that is, and one that wants to be." He went to the nearby piano and took a seat. "I'm going to help you release your suppressed alter ego."

Smith eyed him with gentle skepticism and warned, "Two shrinks have already tried the same thing. But I'm the same mediocre me."

Roarke played an introduction and suggested with a warm smile, "Sing, Mr. Smith." Smith gave him a blank look, as if he hadn't heard, and Roarke repeated, "I said sing. I believe this song is in your repertoire." He went on playing, and Smith hesitated, then began to shake his head, a pleading, half-panicked look on his face.

"Something wrong?" inquired Roarke, while Leslie climbed the stairs to the stage to explore the small platform up there, though she didn't stop listening.

"You see...I can hear it in here," Smith said, pointing at his head, "but it just doesn't come out!"

Roarke regarded him for a moment, then inquired, "What you hear...does it sound like this?" This time he played with more force; then a voice sang out from somewhere in the room, catching Leslie's attention as well as that of a shocked Robert Smith: _"Please release me, let me go / For I don't love you anymore..."_

Leslie watched Smith listen intently to the lyrics; the male voice certainly sounded like Smith's, but far more robust and vital, clear and perfectly on key. Smith kept staring at the cutout, and Leslie noticed him doing it; she had to admit, a voice like that sounded as though the guy in the photo should be singing it, rather than Smith.

Roarke brought the song to an end, and Smith turned to him excitedly. "That's it, Mr. Roarke! That's how I want to sing! But...that was more than some kind of...amplification of my voice, or...electronic trick. That was real."

"Yes, Mr. Smith," Roarke said with a nod. "It was very real. It was the voice of the personality you say you want to become." He rose and rounded the piano to face Smith. "The personality that is slowly coming into being—with its own voice, and mind, and body."

Smith gave him a look and shook his head as if to get something out of his ear. "You're not telling me there's going to be two of me...I mean, another live Bob Smith walking around?"

Roarke gazed solemnly at him. "That's precisely what I'm telling you."

Smith chuckled and scoffed, "Why, that's impossible."

"Not here, it isn't," Leslie said from halfway up the steps, and fielded Smith's look when he cranked around to stare at her. She nodded. "Really."

Smith wheeled back to stare at Roarke, who nodded and smiled a little. "She's right, Mr. Smith. If I believed in that word, _impossible_ , then I'd be out of business." He seemed to remember something then and checked his gold watch. "Speaking of business, I have something to attend to. Will you excuse me? Leslie, come with me, please." He turned as they started for the stairway to the exit. "Oh, and your wife is waiting for you in the Lilac Bungalow." With that, he ushered Leslie out ahead of him.


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § - March 3, 1984

They took care of some issues at the hotel and then at the resort marina before walking the long path back to the main house, talking about assorted minor business matters and then about what Leslie had most lately heard from her friends in college. They were still talking when they heard a dog barking from somewhere not far away, and paused to listen—Roarke with some surprise and anticipation, Leslie in bewilderment. A moment later, around the bend in the pathway just ahead of them trotted a dog of indeterminate breed, carrying a leash in its jaws; Lawrence lagged behind, looking wary and annoyed.

"Lawrence?" said Roarke, eyeing him oddly.

As though responding to the name, the dog trotted up to Roarke and sat right in front of him, its tail beating madly back and forth. Leslie watched in complete befuddlement as he knelt to scratch the dog between its ears, murmuring, "Good boy...good to see you!" The dog whimpered ecstatically, tail going even faster somehow.

Lawrence stayed where he stood. "I was attempting to deliver Whiskers, sir," he said in a dire tone. He approached only a step or two before the dog growled, turning its head slightly, its eyeballs shifting and showing some white.

Leslie could just see Roarke stifle a smile. "I don't think he likes you yet, Lawrence."

"There's no accounting for bad taste," Lawrence sniffed.

"Mr. Roarke...when did you get a dog?" Leslie finally asked, totally at sea.

"Just recently, Leslie," he replied, glancing at her over his shoulder. "This is Whiskers. And Lawrence, you two will learn to like each other in time, I'm sure." Lawrence promptly affected a highly doubtful look; even the dog, who reminded Leslie of a scruffy little movie mutt named Benji, seemed skeptical.

Lawrence sighed. "If you are determined to acquire a dog, sir, surely one more suitable could be found..." The dog growled at him a little, as if offended.

Roarke looked up and echoed, "Suitable?"

"More suited to a man of your position...your, uh, cosmopolitan flair, sir," Lawrence said, trying to look ingratiating but not quite succeeding.

"Such as?" prompted Roarke relentlessly.

"Possibly an Irish wolfhound," suggested Lawrence with a decidedly hopeful note to his voice, "a brace of wolfhounds, or—" Just then, Aimee Marshall appeared on the run from behind Roarke and Leslie; Lawrence cut himself off and focused on her, causing Roarke to stand and Leslie to turn around. Roarke quietly urged the dog to go along with Lawrence; after a protesting growl, Whiskers reluctantly joined the Englishman and departed with him. Leslie twitched back to the edge of the path as Aimee Marshall came to a halt, looking deeply upset, with an expression of indecision on her face.

"Mrs. Marshall, is something wrong?" Roarke asked in concern.

"Not something—everything," she cried.

"Have you told your husband?" Roarke asked, thinking this was the reason for her distraught demeanor.

Aimee shook her head. "No...we had a misunderstanding. I'm looking for him now."

Her voice was shaky and distracted, and Roarke peered more closely at her as Leslie stared at them both, feeling like an intruder. "There is something else, isn't there?"

"Those phone calls I told you about?" Aimee said, and he nodded. "Well, he called again. He's here on the island!" Her face crumpled and she fled.

Leslie edged up to Roarke, now too puzzled and confused to hold her counsel. "What did she mean? Who's here? What phone calls? What didn't she tell her husband?"

Roarke turned to her and shushed her. "Not here, Leslie, and not now. I'll tell you later, if it's appropriate."

"You know her secret, don't you?" Leslie asked, already knowing the answer.

Roarke only nodded and put a hand between her shoulder blades, guiding her back toward the house. "Yes...but as I said, that's for later. If we find a free moment sometime this afternoon, I'll explain it to you. Let's have some lunch."

No sooner had they finished the light meal, however, than Robert Smith and his wife, Colette, appeared at the main house; Smith seemed agitated, though he said nothing at first, merely smiled and greeted them all in his soft-spoken, polite manner. Lawrence served tea, brought out a tropical fruit-juice mix for Leslie, and made himself scarce, possibly to see if that dog Roarke had just bought was behaving itself, Leslie supposed. Roarke inquired, as he did of nearly all their guests sooner or later, as to whether the amenities were satisfactory and if they were enjoying their stay; Colette smilingly assured him that everything was marvelous, and Roarke nodded, looking pleased.

But Smith wouldn't stay still and kept pacing the room while they spoke. Finally he blurted, "Mr. Roarke, I want this fantasy canceled—now!"

"Excellent, Mr. Smith, excellent!" Roarke lauded.

Smith stared at him blankly. "What're you talking about?"

"Your assertiveness, your lack of shyness," Roarke said. "The fantasy seems to be working already!"

"Sure looks like it to me," Leslie agreed with a smile.

"They're right, Bob," Colette said, beaming. "I've never seen you like this!"

Smith gaped at each one as he or she spoke, then shook his head and collapsed into a chair, staring at the untouched teacup on the table in front of him. "Don't any of you understand? I'm _scared!"_

"Of what?" asked Colette.

Smith hesitated a moment, then eyed Roarke. "I...I didn't really believe what you said about there being two of me, but...well, I do now. That...that photograph of me in our bungalow—it—it smiled at me, and winked! It was _alive!"_

Colette's face took on a sympathetic look. "Oh, poor baby. You're sick."

Smith shot to his feet, exasperated. "Not yet," he retorted, "but I'm going to be. I can't handle this, Mr. Roarke. I want this fantasy stopped!"

"Oh...I'm afraid that's the one thing on Fantasy Island that _is_ impossible, Mr. Smith," said Roarke with light regret. "Once a fantasy is under way, there is no way to stop it. I'm sorry." Leslie wondered how many times Roarke had had to say that over the years.

Colette stood up. "Excuse me...but he said that a picture of him smiled and winked at him..." Roarke nodded with interest; Leslie could see Colette's skeptical smile. "And you're taking him seriously?"

"Oh, of course," said Roarke.

"It did!" Smith interjected indignantly. Roarke placed his teacup on the table while Colette shifted her eyeballs to aim at her husband a stare that plainly doubted his sanity.

"If Mr. Smith is to achieve his fantasy, it's necessary to build a new personality," explained Roarke, "a separate embodiment of what he wants to become."

"Oh, sure," Colette said, playing along, chuckling. "Super-Clone."

"Something like that, yes, uh-huh," confirmed Roarke, smiling broadly at Smith, who just sighed silently and looked away. Colette's smile died and she turned away with a sigh of her own and a look that suggested she was seriously considering calling the nearest funny farm to report some escapees. They all watched her leave.

"That's it," blurted Smith then, crossing the room toward Roarke. "She's absolutely right. I had to be hallucinating! You planted the idea in my head, and my imagination brought it to life!" He chuckled briefly and gave Roarke a conciliatory pat on the arm. "I don't care what you say, Mr. Roarke—my fantasy is definitely canceled. Thanks, but no thanks." He started out in his wife's wake, then paused as he opened the door and regarded Roarke, looking impressed. "I'll tell you one thing—you're better than all the shrinks. But that's it: it's all over now." Roarke nodded, apparently accepting, as Smith informed him, "I'm gonna rehearse, but without my alter ego." He pulled open both doors and started out, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, then stopping short as his own image—but clad in the tux and sporting the wavy hair—grinned at him and challenged, "You wanna bet, Bobby-boy?"

Leslie sat up and leaned forward in astonishment; Roarke smiled and turned quickly away lest Smith happen to catch him in the mirror. They both watched the singer drift toward the outer-foyer door in an apparent daze; then Leslie caught Roarke's eye, and they both grinned widely.

Then it occurred to Leslie to remember something Smith had said. "Wait a minute... he said he was going to the lounge and rehearse. Mr. Roarke, do you think he'll actually follow through on it?"

Roarke smiled at her. "There's only one way to find out, don't you think?"

"Oh, you mean we're gonna spy on him?" She put down her half-finished drink and got to her feet with interest.

Amused, Roarke said, "Perhaps I would have put it differently, but if you want to think of it that way, then yes." She laughed, and they took the walk to the restaurant, nodding to the day manager and some of the waiters on their way to the back, where there was an employee entrance that was located in the far corner of the room from the guest entry. Here Roarke and Leslie paused behind some artificial greenery, watching as Bob Smith stepped onto a small platform at the foot of a decorative set of steps next to the small raised stage, turned to face the empty room, and spread out his arms, smiling self-consciously as if acknowledging applause. "Thank you...thank you so much. Thank you."

After a minute he began to sing, and in actual fact he wasn't bad at all, though he didn't have the vibrant exuberance they had heard earlier from the phantom voice. But he got through no more than two lines when loud, mocking laughter sounded from somewhere, providing a rude backdrop to Smith's singing till he was forced to stop.

"Hey hey...off the stage, Bobby-boy...amateur night's over!" the unseen voice sang out. Smith eyed the cardboard cutout suspiciously, then gave his head a shake and started the song over again. _"Every day I wake up / Then I start to break up..."_

 _"Lonely as a man without love!"_ broke in another voice, except that it wasn't quite another voice. It was clearly that of the alter ego, singing the song the way it properly ought to have been, even accompanied by music. Smith stared at the ceiling in dismay and growing resignation, defeat glimmering from his eyes. The song came to an end; both Smith and Roarke now stared at the cutout. Leslie couldn't see Smith's expression, but Roarke's seemed tight and focused, narrow-eyed, with that look of concentration Leslie had learned meant he was focusing his powers.

"Hey, all right," the voice said. "You like that style, Bobby-boy?"

Smith's body tensed as if for a confrontation. "I'm not going to give in. You're nothing but plywood and paper. I'm real! I'm me!"

The voice laughed again. "You're wrong, baby. You're nothing, just like always!"

"Yeah?" Bob shot back. "Well, hang onto that thought, because it's gonna be your last!" As he said this, the words devolving into an angry growl, he leaped from the platform, seized a chair off a tabletop and made to swing at the cutout—only to be arrested in his tracks when the cutout morphed into a live identical twin of Smith.

Laughing, the alter ego let his arms fall to his sides and sneered, "Look at you! Drab! No wonder you didn't make it at anything. Plain, average, mediocre and dull. Even your name— _Bob Smith!_ I've gotta do something about that."

"This is not happening," Smith muttered, though more out of desperation than any sort of conviction. "If I close my eyes, you'll be gone."

"Be careful, Bobby. You close your eyes, and _you_ might be gone," taunted the alter ego. Leslie looked at Roarke, but he remained still and silent, watching. "Hey...that's not a bad idea. We bury Bob Smith, and celebrate the birthday of...uh..." He thought for a moment, then lit up, snapping his fingers. "I've got it—that infamous roué and lecher of the seventeenth century, Virgilius Ferm!" Chortling in delight, the alter ego trotted up the exit stairs, pausing near the top to aim a last derisive grin at Smith. "So long, Bob Smith," he said with an exaggerated, spread-armed bow. "I'm taking over from here. Bye-bye, baby!" Laughing again, he cantered out. Smith stared after him in abject defeat, shaking his head.

"Mr. Roarke?" Leslie whispered, but Roarke only shook his own head once or twice and gestured her out of the room. She sighed and submitted, knowing better by now than to argue with him about it. Nobody could get Smith out of his situation but Smith; but she had to admit to herself that she had doubts he would even try.

‡ ‡ ‡

Leslie and Roarke were on their way back from the luau, very late that night, so late that it was almost the next day in fact. "This is so stupid," Leslie was complaining over the threnody of a couple of night criers competing with each other. "I mean, my friends would be laughing at me so hard—eighteen years old, and I can't even stay up much past midnight! I'm never telling them. Myeko and Camille especially—they're always writing me about how they stay up partying till three in the morning on Friday and Saturday nights. You'd think they'd be at least as knocked out from studying as I am from working."

Roarke regarded her with laughter in his dark eyes. "What makes you so certain they're studying?" he teased, and grinned at her when she groaned. "Why be ashamed, Leslie? You put in an honest day's work every day, particularly during the weekends, so you should consider that you've earned this rest, no matter how comparatively early you think you're retiring for a night. Perhaps you should..." He paused then, and Leslie opened her mouth to ask a question, then shut it when she caught sight of what he was staring at. A dejected Bob Smith sat on a bench some fifty yards away from them; even as they watched, Virgilius Ferm, the alter ego, sauntered toward him and grinned.

"You're not going anywhere, Bobby-boy. Unfortunately, we've got to stick together," said Virgilius. "Not too close, but you know what I mean."

Smith threw him a glare. "I'm leaving, and I'm taking Colette with me."

"Uh-uh," Virgilius retorted. "I've got a performance to do tonight, remember? And I'm gonna wow 'em, just like you always wanted to do." He snickered.

"I'm not going to hang around here and let you go on seducing my wife...trying to take over my future!" Smith retorted.

"You've got no other choice, Bobby. That's why I'm here: because I'm everything you're not!"

"You're nothing!" hissed Smith. "Just some temporary freak extension of me!"

"Take a good look," Virgilius said, straightening up, his false joviality becoming a menacing sneer. "I'm not Bob _Smith—"_ he gave Smith a hard shove as he spoke the surname "—failure at life! I'm Virgilius _Ferm—"_ another shove "—super man, superstar! I'm more real than you'll ever be! Not only have I got it, but I know what to do with it, baby!" Then he delivered the final blow: "Ask Colette!"

It was too much for Smith and he took a wild swing at Virgilius, who easily deflected it and retaliated with a loud socking punch that sent Smith crashing to the ground, groaning in pain. Virgilius cackled again, taunting, "Wanna try again, Bobby-boy? Huh? Huh?" He waggled his fingers as if in mocking invitation, and Smith scrambled back to his feet and threw another punch which Virgilius ducked with hardly any effort at all. He punched Smith back to the ground and began chortling again as Smith lay there panting for air. "See, you're weak! You just don't have it in you to make it at anything. That's because you're what you've always been and I'm what you'll never be!"

"I'll find a way," Smith vowed, panting. Roarke and Leslie could see blood trickling from his lower lip.

"Sure you will," Virgilius said, humoring him. "You'll adapt, accept it...keep the books for me, maybe, heh heh! 'Cause you don't have any other choice. Ciao, Bobby-baby. Oh, and you won't wanna miss the performance!" Laughing again, he turned and departed at last.

"Mr. Roarke," Leslie whispered, "shouldn't we say anything?"

"Not at this moment, no," Roarke whispered back. "Mr. Smith is at his lowest point right now. To find that he's been seen, even by the most sympathetic bystanders, would merely be humiliating to him. Let's go this way; you have some sleep to get, and I myself wouldn't mind a bit of a rest."


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § - March 4, 1984

Following breakfast, the threesome had gathered around the tea table, with Leslie sorting through the latest stack of newly arrived mail and Roarke and Lawrence cataloguing Roarke's art collection, a project they had started early the previous week and worked on whenever they had a chance. Leslie was about halfway through the pile of envelopes when she noticed that a longer silence than usual had fallen, and looked up to see Lawrence examining an odd little sculpture that looked rather like a seated teddy bear with a too-small head and some knobs representing its paws. "What's that?" she asked curiously.

"Not a particularly noteworthy piece," Lawrence remarked, handing it to Roarke. "Why a man of your impeccable taste should treasure it is a mystery to me, sir." He leaned over and made ready to write in a ledger. "Artist? Circa?"

Roarke eyed him wryly, then announced, "Artist, Roarke." Lawrence sat up and stared at him, and Roarke prompted, "R-O-A-R-K-E. Circa, age four." Leslie's hand drifted to her mouth in amazement; it was the first and only artifact— indeed , the only evidence of any kind—of her adoptive father's childhood that she had ever seen or heard about.

Lawrence, without changing expression, remarked, "On the other hand, it does have a certain primitive genius."

"You've once again proved that you have an extraordinary eye, Lawrence," Roarke said with approval, and without any irony that Leslie could detect. She shook her head, then focused on the sculpture and tipped forward.

"Could I see that, Mr. Roarke, please? I'll be careful with it," she promised.

Roarke grinned and handed it to her as Lawrence murmured his thanks for Roarke's compliment—himself sounding unsure of whether it was ironic—and made the appropriate notes in the ledger. Then Roarke added, "To say nothing of your tact..." and Leslie simply couldn't keep from laughing. Roarke's grin lingered as he refilled his teacup and she studied the little sculpture with interest.

But when she would have asked him about it, a voice came from the terrace: "Mr. Roarke..." Both Lawrence and Roarke stood up, and Leslie followed suit as an agitated Aimee Marshall strode in. "Mr. Roarke, could I have a word with you, please?"

"Certainly," Roarke replied.

Lawrence excused himself and departed the way Aimee had come in; Leslie, sensing she was better off elsewhere, set the sculpture on the table and gathered up the mail. "I'll do the rest of these in my room," she said, and at Roarke's nod hurried up the stairs.

By the time she had finished, most of an hour had passed and she was rubbing her eyes, still a little fatigued. She sensed a movement in the doorway and spotted Roarke standing there, smiling. "All right?"

She nodded. "Just got done, but boy, my eyes are so tired for some reason." She made a face at three envelopes that lay on her desk. "Something else I won't be telling my friends. And that's a little ironic, since I got letters from Lauren, Michiko and Myeko all in this same batch." Roarke laughed at that.

"Then in that case, bring the rest back down with you, and we'll take a walk; that should help to refresh you, and you can focus your eyes on something besides small print and handwritten addresses." He watched her arise and join him in the doorway, and a few minutes later they were taking a brisk stroll along another pathway that would eventually take them to an oceanside cliff trail that had proven to be very popular with guests.

As it happened, one such guest was Bob Smith, although he understandably didn't have much care for the view. "I wondered where you were," he said accusingly. "I just came from the main house and you weren't there, and some Polynesian woman told me—very grudgingly, I should add—that you and your daughter here had gone out walking."

 _That would've been Mariki, probably,_ Leslie reflected, thinking Roarke should have a few words with their often-irascible cook. "I apologize, Mr. Smith," Roarke said, "but perhaps you'd like to have that talk here, with this relaxing view before us?"

Smith shrugged. "Why not, it's as good a place as any. What I wanted to say was...well, I think things are really shot to hell. I don't know what to do, and nothing's working out as I thought it would."

"I agree, Mr. Smith," Roarke observed, "it does seem that your fantasy has taken an unusual turn." Leslie shook her head to herself; she rarely failed to be amazed at Roarke's penchant for extreme understatement.

Smith stopped short and stared at him. "Is that what you call it? I've been made a fool of, been humiliated, lost my wife, been punched out—and all you can say is 'things have taken an unusual turn'?"

Roarke's tone grew exasperated. "Why don't you stop feeling sorry for yourself, Mr. Smith, and _think?"_

"I am—about Virgilius Ferm!" Smith retorted.

"And who is this Virgilius Ferm, except the personality you've always envisioned yourself becoming?"

Leslie broke in, "Who's Virgilius Ferm anyway? I mean, the original Ferm—I never heard of him." Smith and Roarke eyed her, and she cleared her throat. "Sorry...forget I asked."

Smith sighed, went back over Roarke's last words and blinked as they registered fully. "Are you standing up for that...that monster?"

"Mr. Smith, that monster is yourself!" Roarke snapped, his patience exhausted.

"What?" Smith blurted.

"That's right! It's that hidden part of your own being that you've never let take control: flashy, talented, bold, sure of himself—"

"And don't forget cruel, conniving and selfish!" Smith threw in.

"Yes," Roarke agreed, "it unfortunately lacks in the admirable human qualities of kindness and compassion, because those qualities are an inherent part of you." He pointed at Smith for emphasis. "Of Bob Smith. A part that can't be separated by ambition, or mere wishful daydreaming."

Smith looked thwarted. "Which leaves me right where I started—nowhere! You've got to put a stop to this thing!"

"No, _you've_ got to put a stop to it. Your fantasy ends tonight, Mr. Smith. Your Virgilius Ferm will cease to exist in any form. Your alter ego will be gone forever, along with your last chance to change yourself—and your life."

Smith heaved another sigh and sat on a nearby bench, as if worn out. "Then what should I do, Mr. Roarke?"

Roarke smiled and approached him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Take over your other personality, Mr. Smith. Refuse to give in. Remember, there are many ways to fight. This—" he raised his fists "—is the least effective. The _most_ effective way is with the mind, and the heart." He patted the man's shoulder again. "Think about it, Mr. Smith...think about it." He smiled once more, then nodded to Leslie and struck off down the path; she cast a quick encouraging smile at Smith and fell into step beside him.

"So..." she began after a moment, forgetting Virgilius Ferm when another subject entirely resurfaced in her brain. "About Aimee Marshall..."

Roarke's sudden stare at her was sharp, as if he had been reminded of something. "Oh, yes. Without going into details, Leslie, Mrs. Marshall was raped, almost a year ago, just before her marriage." Leslie gasped, and he nodded. "And what is worse, she's been receiving phone calls from the rapist—which means he's here on the island, and is specifically targeting her. However, I won't take chances with your safety. Why don't you go to the lounge and remain there; you can call your friend Maureen if you like and invite her to come with you. You'll have plenty of company and you may as well have the evening meal there also; I'll know where you are, and you'll be surrounded by people and thus safe."

Leslie swallowed thickly, reminded all of a sudden of Jack the Ripper's accidental escape onto the island a few years before. "Okay, I can do that," she agreed. "I just...I hope you can find this creep and catch him before something else horrible happens."

"As do I," Roarke said quietly. "We still have some time, though. Let's get back to the house for now; we'll have to wait for tonight before either fantasy can be resolved."

Happily, Maureen was able to accompany Leslie to the lounge, and was astonished and horrified to hear that a rapist was loose on the island. Leslie told her, "He's probably targeting only one of our guests, but Mr. Roarke didn't want to take any chances, so he sent me over here. So here we are..." She let her gaze stray toward the empty stage as a waiter set plates in front of her and Maureen. "Thanks, Jason." The waiter smiled, sketched a shallow bow at her and left them, with Maureen gazing after him.

"He was cute," she said when Leslie caught her doing it, and Leslie laughed. With a sheepish grin, Maureen peered at her plate. "Looks good. Is this on the house or something?"

"Yup...Mr. Roarke and I and Lawrence can take advantage of a meal anytime, and we can bring guests if we want, so yours is on the house too. Well, I think we've got plenty of time to enjoy the meal, so let's just hang out and talk."

A good hour later, long after the girls had finished their dinner and dessert and were playing with exotic tropical drinks with a modicum of alcohol in them, Roarke appeared at their table, dressed in a tuxedo and smiling with clear relief. "We can relax, Leslie," he said reassuringly. "Mrs. Marshall's rapist has been caught and securely locked up."

Leslie blew out a breath and sagged back in her chair. "Great! I hope you caught him before he could harm her again."

"He nearly did, but her husband caught him in the attempt and managed to overpower him. He'll be severely dealt with." Roarke let a beat elapse, then turned to the other girl. "Good evening, Maureen. We don't see you around very often."

Maureen let another sheepish grin creep over her features. "Hi, Mr. Roarke. Yeah, I guess I'm as busy with Tomai's Catering as Leslie is helping you grant fantasies. I'm glad she called tonight, though. There wasn't much going on, and I was getting sick of watching TV anyway. Leslie said there's supposed to be a singer here tonight."

"One of our guests making his debut, yes," Roarke said. "And I believe he has fully conquered his, uh...demon." He winked at Leslie.

"That's good news too," she said, aware of Maureen's puzzled look. "So he's actually going to come out and really sing, then?"

Roarke nodded, smiling. "You two can remain here and catch up," he said. "I'd better go and telephone Lawrence, lest he grow unduly worried, as is his wont." The last four words came out in a rather wry tone that made both girls laugh; he chuckled in response, excused himself and departed.

Just a few minutes later a figure emerged onto the dim stage, and applause rose as a spotlight landed on Bob Smith and he thanked them for the accolades, before launching into a pretty ballad. He did an admirable job on it, and Leslie could see that it was coming from his heart, for he sang almost exclusively to Colette, though he didn't neglect the rest of his audience. There were loud cheers for him when he concluded the song, and Maureen and Leslie joined in the clapping; Leslie caught Roarke's eye across the room, and he smiled at her, nodding.

§ § § - March 5, 1984

"Well, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, how do you feel the morning after your smashing debut, huh?" Roarke inquired genially the next morning.

"Smashing," Smith said.

"That goes double for me," said Colette, and then caught herself. "Oh no—what am I saying?" She and Smith burst out laughing, and Leslie joined in; even Roarke chuckled cheerfully along with them. They all traded thanks and farewells, and the Smiths ambled off to the dock together. The Marshalls' goodbyes were heartfelt with gratitude, and Leslie found herself smiling, happy that things had turned out as well as usual.

Then she heard something behind her and turned around to see a native leading two fairly large cream-colored dogs up to them. Lawrence noticed too and brightened. "Now, sir...I've a little surprise." Roarke looked around and reacted with perplexity at sight of the dogs; Lawrence took their leads and smiled proudly. "Irish wolfhounds. Pedigreed. Surely that's more your style?"

"They're awfully big, aren't they?" Leslie ventured, peering at the butler.

Roarke seemed to agree and studied the dogs dubiously. "I don't know, Lawrence—"

"Oh, but sir, they are completely trained; they won't make a move without your command!" Lawrence assured him, with enormous pride and satisfaction in his voice. "Not so much as..." He trailed off at the bark of another dog, and Roarke's mutt Whiskers bounded up to them, pausing beside his owner and eyeing the two larger dogs. They stared back in panting silence; then Whiskers snarled and feinted at the wolfhounds, and to everyone's shock, both dogs reared back, yanking their leashes out of Lawrence's hand, whipping around and bolting away into the nearby trees.

Lawrence gaped at Roarke in horrified shock; Roarke merely looked quizzical. "You were saying, Lawrence?" he prompted.

Abashed, Lawrence muttered, "Not a word, sir...not a word." He turned away and glared after the vanished wolfhounds, while Roarke peered down at Whiskers and executed a huge wink at the mutt that sent Leslie into gales of delighted laughter.

§ § § - October 17, 2009

The triplets were rolling with glee over the canine antics, and Christian was laughing too, shaking his head as he caught sight of his niece guffawing right along with her young cousins. "Fates have mercy," he said. "And what happened to the dog?"

"He turned out to be...shall we say, less than housebroken," Leslie said with a grin, "plus, he never did learn to get along with Lawrence. So Father ended up giving Whiskers to a family in the fishing village. I wasn't all that crazy about that mongrel myself, but it was worth having him around for that one week just because he got the better of Lawrence that Monday morning." She noticed Roarke's surprised look and added with a shrug, "Besides, I really wanted a kitten anyway."

At that Christian burst into louder laughter than before, and Anna-Kristina grew all but hysterical with giggles. "You have good taste, Aunt Leslie," she noted through her glee, as Anastasia reacted with her own bubbly chortling and Leslie snickered, rising to collect her youngest child in the hope of settling her down for the night.

Roarke gave Tobias and Susanna each a one-armed squeeze and gently urged them off his lap. "I believe it's close to your bedtime," he remarked, "and I should get home myself."

"No more stories?" Tobias asked, disappointed. "But I wanted a scary one!"

"Maybe another time," Christian said tolerantly. "Your grandfather's right. Come on, you three, up the stairs...your mother has to get Anastasia to sleep and then take your grandfather home, and I think your cousin is tired too."

"I'm not sure Anastasia's ready for bed just yet. We've got her too worked up," Leslie remarked, noting the baby's wide-eyed scrutiny every time someone spoke. "Tell you what, Anna-Kristina, you can try settling her down if you like. I've got to take Father home. You three, say good night to Grandfather."

The triplets did this with great reluctance, then let Christian shepherd them up the stairs while Anna-Kristina played a little peekaboo with Anastasia. Leslie and Roarke went out to the car; not till they were on the Ring Road did Roarke speak. "How many have you hired so far for the administrative committee?" he inquired.

"So far I've got only Camille and Michiko," Leslie admitted. "They both agreed to help me screen additional candidates, but we haven't gotten around to that yet. It's a scary thought. I don't like the idea of having to pick and choose from a pool of people I don't know." She slanted him a quick look. "You did say you'd help."

"I did, and I will," Roarke assured her. "Since Rogan is having an easy time of it this weekend and doesn't seem to need any assistance from us, we can look into that tomorrow. Where are you keeping the applications?"

"I put a new folder in the credenza in your office," Leslie said. "Maybe the other girls will know some people I don't. I mean, I'd rather see natives, or at least people who already live on the island, in these positions, but I don't know who'll be qualified."

Roarke nodded. "We'll consider that in the morning, and you may prefer to call both Camille and Michiko and have them come to render assistance as well. For now, just try to get a good night's sleep. We'll get through this, Leslie—trust me."


	7. Chapter 7

§ § § - October 18, 2009

Leslie called Michiko just before breakfast on Sunday morning and explained what was happening; Michiko agreed to ride in with her to the main house, and Leslie then called Camille and asked her to meet them there. Hanging up, she settled down at the table, where the meal was in progress and she was the last to join. Even Anastasia, who was now well into some solid foods but still preferred solely to nurse first thing in the morning, was now in a high chair watching her siblings, parents and cousin eat.

"What plan do you have for today?" Anna-Kristina asked.

Christian deferred to Leslie, who shrugged. "I'm taking Michiko to the main house in about an hour," she said, "and we're meeting Camille there. They'll be helping Father and me go through whatever applications we've received. Rogan seems to have the fantasies pretty well in hand—he should, they're simple enough. That way Father and I can devote our full time to getting some of this stuff accomplished."

"But what of the rest of us?" Anna-Kristina persisted.

Leslie looked up, then met Christian's gaze. "Do you have anything you meant to do today?" she asked him.

"Nothing planned, no," Christian said. "There's nothing urgent at my office, and I thought the triplets could stay here at home today with Stina if they like. But I myself have no real plans. If you need another mind to analyze some of those applications..."

Leslie smiled. "That'd be great, as long as you're volunteering. If we manage to fill all those positions by the end of the week, I'd feel like I got something done finally."

"Well enough, then I'll go in with you and Michiko. Stina, we'll take Anastasia in with us, since she's still nursing twice a day and she'll have her second feeding about an hour before we have the evening meal at Mr. Roarke's house, so you'll have Susanna, Karina and Tobias with you. And you three..." He turned to the triplets, who all looked around at him. "Your cousin is in charge while we're gone, do you understand?" They nodded, and he turned back to Anna-Kristina. "If the girls get an invitation to play with April Harding across the street, that'll be fine; just call us at the main house and let us know. Other than that, I think you'll all be fine here." He noticed his wife then, absently swirling the juice in her glass. "My Rose, are you all right?"

She looked up in surprise. "Just thinking, why do you ask?"

"You haven't eaten anything," Christian pointed out. "You tend to do that when you're depressed or upset, so I have to take it as a sign."

Leslie looked at her plate, then snorted. "I must be thinking too far ahead. Don't worry, my love, it's not that, it's just sheer preoccupation." She grinned, and he returned it, relaxing visibly. "Might as well have some bacon and eggs, then."

They finished breakfast, and Leslie recruited Susanna and Karina to help her clean the kitchen while Christian put Tobias to work gathering up all the Lego bricks he could find scattered around the living room from various building projects, and Anna-Kristina paced back and forth across the floor in there to get her muscles working. Finally it was time to leave; Michiko appeared a few minutes before Christian and Leslie were ready to go, and had a short chat with Anna-Kristina before Leslie gathered up the baby and a large tote bag filled with supplies for her. They called goodbyes, returned the triplets' hugs, and trooped out to the car, where Leslie secured the baby into her car seat and then they left.

Christian had taken the wheel and parked beside the fountain; as they approached the veranda, they could see Camille leaning against a support post, apparently enjoying the breeze. She grinned at them when she saw them coming. "So we've got some job interviews to conduct, huh?" she remarked.

"If you think you're up to it," Leslie said. "I don't even know how many applications we got, actually. I thought maybe you and Michiko might know some people around the island who could use jobs and have the qualifications, too."

"Well, let's see what's there," Camille said, and with that they trooped into the house, with Leslie carrying Anastasia and her tote bag and Christian lugging the baby carrier. They all greeted Roarke, who was at his desk taking care of accounting, and told him to continue what he was doing till he was finished and ready to join them. Leslie settled Anastasia into the baby carrier, set it on the floor near her, and retrieved the folder of applications.

There weren't many, but it took them a while to go through them all, because Leslie discovered she was pickier than even she had anticipated. She didn't know any of the applicants, and she wasn't entirely sure they qualified for the jobs they were seeking. Every time she rejected another one, Camille and Michiko would exchange looks, and Christian would sigh, shake his head, roll his eyes, or peer at Roarke as if wondering whether he was aware of all this folly.

Finally Christian put a stop to it. "Leslie, this has gone far enough. You're being far too exacting. You'll never get this committee put together unless you trust someone besides yourself to have the island's best interests in mind."

Leslie let out a groan and hid her face in her hands. "I just feel...I feel so protective. It'd be nice if I had any idea who any of these people are. Are you guys sure you don't know any of them, or even heard of them?"

"Hey, being natives doesn't mean we know every other person living on this island," Camille told her. "The only thing you can do is pick out the ones you think come closest to offering whatever you want in a committee member, and then interview them and get a feel for them in person. A piece of paper is gonna tell you only so much."

Leslie protested, "But I've never conducted a job interview in my life. I wouldn't know what to ask...or worse, how to read body language and how to interpret tone of voice or anything. I could go by gut instinct as far as who I thought I might be able to trust, but gut instinct isn't perfect."

Michiko grinned. "Well, maybe you've never conducted interviews, but Christian has, right? Maybe he'd be willing to do it, if you tell him what you want from a potential committee member."

The girls laughed when Christian stared at her, and Leslie patted his thigh. "Are you sorry you came yet, my love?"

He slid her a look that got more laughs from them, then relented and shook his head again, chuckling. "Well, it doesn't seem to me that any of you three have had occasion to interview job candidates, so if it falls to me, then I suppose it's as well. Mr. Roarke, forgive me if I'm interrupting you, but would you prefer to have a hand in the interviewing also? I must admit, personally, I think it best if you did, and I'm sure it would greatly ease Leslie's mind as well."

Roarke looked up and teased, "I thought that went without saying. I realize appearances have suggested otherwise, but I've been listening to the process over there, and clearly you're having some trouble. Give me a few more minutes and I'll join you, and perhaps we can choose a few promising candidates." Neither he nor Christian missed Leslie's relieved sigh, and Christian smoothed her hair reassuringly, wondering what was really going on in her mind. He decided to wait till the committee had been filled to ask.

§ § § - October 31, 2009

By the time Anna-Kristina was put on the noon charter plane that Saturday for the first of a series of flights home, she knew that Christian and Leslie were planning to move permanently back to Lilla Jordsö the following year. "Don't go blathering it to everyone back home," Christian warned her. "We have the right to tell them ourselves, before they find out through the media. You can tell Kai if you like, but don't tell the girls, for there's a good chance they may inadvertently mention it to a schoolmate."

Anna-Kristina nodded. "If that's the way you prefer it, then I won't argue with it. But I hope you tell them soon, because a secret like that isn't easy to keep, and I know they'll be overjoyed to hear it." She looked at Leslie. "We know it'll be a sad thing for you, Aunt Leslie, leaving this island..."

"It will," Leslie said, "but we're not leaving it behind only to never come back. We'll be returning here every summer; that way the triplets can still have their friends here, and Christian and I can see our friends too." She grinned. "And I can keep an eye on Rogan, the way Father asked me to." They all laughed. "So it's not as bad as it could be. And we won't actually be moving till probably next August anyway, so we still have time. Just keep the secret for now, and we'll tell everybody else as soon as we get a chance."

"All right, then." The princess smiled and then hugged her aunt and uncle before accepting and returning hugs from the triplets, even Tobias. "By the way, I had an e-mail from Adriana. She's pregnant again already."

"But Johan-Erik's only three months old!" Leslie exclaimed, astonished.

"Are they trying for a girl?" Christian wondered with a grin. Roald and Adriana now had two sons; Johan-Erik Tomas Jakob Lagnebring had been born on July 14.

"Maybe," Anna-Kristina said with a shrug, "but it could also be that Adriana just likes being pregnant with Roald's babies. She did say she intended to produce a lot of children." They all laughed; then the last boarding call came, and Anna-Kristina waved at them a final time and hurried up the dock toward the hatch of the seaplane.

"Wow, Staffan got a little brother," Tobias said enviously. "I wish I could."

"Tobias, that will do," Christian said through a sigh. "Your mother and I are not having any more babies. You'll just have to settle for having boy cousins. Let's get back to the main house and see if Rogan's committed any major errors yet."

Leslie burst out laughing. "You don't have much faith in him, do you?"

"Not after what he did when he saw that human fly who came here last weekend. I have to say, I've never heard a grown man scream quite like that. At first I thought Julie had appeared and gotten a look at that apparition."

She giggled. "Oh, come on, give him a break. I mean, I threw up, after all, and even Father looked pretty revolted."

Christian grinned. "I'm still amazed Mr. Roarke decided to accept that fantasy for granting. I suppose he was testing Rogan, but that's an unusually gruesome way of doing it, if you ask me." To the triplets, who had started tearing around the clearing once Anna-Kristina had boarded, he called, "All right, you three, let's go—lunch is waiting."

"Lunch?" Leslie groaned, and he laughed again, slipping an arm around her waist and leading her and the triplets toward the car. Just for now, they would set aside the future to enjoy the moment.

* * *

 _Here are the credits for the adapted episodes from the last few stories. I've included credits only for those characters from the show that appeared in the adaptations._

 _From_ **One Last Hurrah:**

" _The Red Baron / Young at Heart" (original airdate October 27, 1979): Don Adams (1923-2005) as Cornelius Weiselfarber; Ron Ely as the Red Baron; Diana Canova as Helen Philips; Dave Madden (1931-2014) as George Crane; David Ladd as David Hanks_

" _Jungle Man / Mary Ann and Miss Sophisticate" (original airdate March 8, 1980): Dennis Cole (1940-2009) as David Farley/Jungle Man; France Nuyen as Mara; Manu Tupou (1935-2004) as Prester John; Annette Funicello (1942-2013) as Mary Ann Carlin; Maren Jensen as Valerie; Don Galloway (1937-2009) as George Reardon_

" _Delphine / The Unkillable" (original airdate April 11, 1981): Ann Jillian as Delphine MacNabb; Don Galloway (again) as Greg Randolph; Carl Ballantine (1917-2009) as The Great Zachariah; Doris Roberts as Madame Cluny; Randolph Mantooth as Dr. Paul Todd; Annette Funicello (again) as Elizabeth Drake; Alex Cord as Kyle Mason_

 _From_ **Decisions:**

" _The Invisible Woman / The Snow Bird" (original airdate December 6, 1980): Doug Barr as Ned Pringle; Pamela Sue Martin as Velda Ferrini; George Maharis as Mario Ferrini; Don Ameche (1908-1993) as Papa Ferrini; Elaine Joyce as Harriet Winkler; Richard "Dick" Gautier as Denny Palumbo; Sonny Bono (1935-1998) as Morty Green; Neile McQueen as Trish; Betty Jean Samuelson as Rose; Debra Jo Fondren as Roseanna; Bob Boyd as Kenneth DeJong_

" _Crescendo / Three Feathers" (original airdate December 20, 1980): Toni Tennille as Susan Lohman; Monte Markham as Edmond Dumont; Skip Homeier as Mike Durwood; Hugh O'Brian as Allan Culshaw; Diane Baker as Lena Jordan; James Wainwright as Jake Lawrie_

" _Operation Breakout / Candy Kisses" (original airdate January 15, 1983): Ann Turkel as Rowena Haversham; Jill Whelan as Crystal Denning; John Beck as Jim Denning; Ben Murphy as Danny Clements_

 _From this story:_

" _Second Time Around / Three's a Crowd" (original airdate November 19, 1983): Geoffrey Scott as Gary Tucker; Cristina Ferrare as Kathleen Tucker; Michelle Phillips as Helen Sinclair; Dorothy McGuire (1916-2001) as Joan Mallory; Craig Stevens (1918-2000) as Alan Reynolds; Stuart Damon as Richard Mallory; Brooke Bundy as Lisa Mallory; Tracey Gold as Michelle Mallory_

" _Dark Secret / The Outrageous Mr. Smith" (original airdate March 3, 1984): Engelbert Humperdinck as Bob Smith and Virgilius Ferm; Elaine Joyce (again) as Colette Smith; Markie Post as Aimee Marshall; Larry Wilcox as Christopher Marshall_

 _P.S. Virgilius Ferm wasn't a seventeenth-century roué and lecher at all...he was a nineteenth-century writer and religious philosopher who died in 1924 (actual spelling "Vergilius Ferm"). I suspect some writer was having a little fun there..._


End file.
